


The Steps of Iron

by lorelei_4



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Drama & Romance, F/M, For Rhaegar and Lyanna fans, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, POV Arthur Dayne, POV Ashara Dayne, POV Brandon Stark, POV Cersei Lannister, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Jon Connington, POV Lyanna Stark, POV Ned Stark, POV Rhaegar Targaryen, POV Rhaella Targaryen, Pro R+L, Rhaegar and Lyanna centric, not for cersei fans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 163,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorelei_4/pseuds/lorelei_4
Summary: AU in which Cersei's dream comes true and she weds Rhaegar, Rhaegar waits for the Prince, that was promised, Aerys drowns in his paranoia, and Lyanna appears in King's Landing before Harrenhall as the Queen's lady in waiting, and the King's hostage in truth.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Arthur Dayne & Rhaegar Targaryen, Arthur Dayne/Original Female Character(s), Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister/Rhaegar Targaryen, Elia Martell/Brandon Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 377
Kudos: 393





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The story is based on the book to the greater extent, exept for Varys, who is mostly his show self.  
> English is not my native, so I'm really-really sorry for the mistakes.

The air in the dungeons where he was being kept was so stuffed, that it seemed he breathed in the dirt itself. When Watt had only been brought here for the first time, his guts had turned several times inside out from the horrible smell of filthy human bodies and excrements, that filled the whole space around him. However, soon he had got used to both the stink and the food, which looked like mud and tasted like contents of a chamber pot. Even in the Flea Bottom Watt had never tried anything worse than that, but hunger pangs can force anyone to eat whatever is given. 

Still, Watt’s life in custody got better after some time and even gained some pleasant consistency, he acquired several friends among the other petty thieves, who languished in prison alongside him. Some were waiting for their punishment in this dark cell and some just for judgement, but it looked like all of them were simply forgotten by the outer world. The old-timers had spent here several years, losing any hope for justice along the way. The most reckless gamblers made bets on who was going to leave the place first. Surely, nobody had any money and the game was played just for fun.

“I wish a recruiter comes from the Night’s Watch,” Eris started on his favourite song, he was the bard from somewhere in the Riverlands. He had been charged with a rape of a noblewoman, but he swore to anybody who cared to ask that everything happened only out of pure love. He wore the same velvet doublet, which had been on him at the time he had been captured, but by now the garment turned from dark lilac into muddy-grey. 

“The black brothers hadn’t been here for ages,” old toothless Micken growled. Nobody remembered when he first appeared in the dungeons, even Micken himself, and his crime still remained the constant reason for endless rumour and idle gossip.

“And why couldn’t they come now?” Argued Eris, unable to set such a hopeful idea free.

Micken snorted with a whistle. The missing front teeth made all the noise coming from his mouth sound like whistling.

“And if you ask me,” he continued, “I’m not at all eager to freeze my ass on the Wall.”

“Far better, than rot here,” Eris retorted.

Micken have already started to raise his hand in order to give Eris some answer, when somebody’s heavy and firm tread was heard from behind the bars. All of them instantly froze, as if by a command, and fell silent waiting. The sound came from two goldcloaks, who tramped in unison along the stone tube of a corridor, which ran between the two rows of cells filled with prisoners of all sorts. They both came to a halt near one of the guards and started to talk to him in a low voice. Watt felt sticky and cold goosebumps ran up and down his spine. 

The guard waved a hand and opened the iron gate to the cell. Goldcloaks walked in, they were two heavy bearded men with an expression of utter indifference. It seemed, that brains were for a long time removed from their heads and they were both ruled by some wizard, Watt had heard of such things before. The goldcloaks looked around, one of them started to point a finger at some of the prisoners and the other led them out of the cell. Aa the first one they chose Eris, then a rapist, who had spent here more than five years already, then another thief. Watt was chosen last, while old Micken just chuckled and whistled in a hole, which remained of his teeth.

“Follow me,” one of the goldcloaks commanded, and Watt reluctantly trailed behind everyone else. His guts were twisted and not because of the hunger.

“I want to wear black,” cried Eris. “Please.”

One of the goldcloaks looked at him in a way as if the poor guy was mad and punched him in the stomach with such a force, that Eris chocked on his own words. After that he spoke no more. 

The air on the streets of King’s Landing could hardly be called fresh, as well as the wind called cool, but after a stuffy dungeon it felt like a sea breeze caressing the skin. However, Watt would prefer to stay in the darkness below the ground surface and enjoy the same familiar smells. Here it smelled of danger most of all, and Watt sensed it clearly. When he saw the towers of the Red Keep in front of him, he became completely convinced of his suspicions. His companions were silent, but the look on their faces was no less frightened, Eris was about to start crying at any moment.

_They cut off a hand for theft_ , Watt thought. _Without a hand, I can last somehow. It would be better if they chopped off the left one, of course._

“Where are we dragging them, huh?” suddenly asked one of the guards.

“As if you don’t know, chump,” snorted another. “It’s not a big secret.”

“But last week, he ...” the “chump” began to explain.

“Who cares?” His mate shrugged. “All the prisons are full, there is still enough firewood for our king for quite a long time,” he nodded towards the outlaws and a laugh, that sounded like a pig’s snort, escaped his mouth.

“But they ...” the “chump” tried to object. “They are still little children,” he pointed at Eris and Watt. “Let's release them and say that they, like, run away.”

“You, dear brother, have completely lost your mind,” the second soldier hissed at him. “If they run away, then you and I will be the ones to stoke the royal fire, and I still have some other plans for my life. They say that the king must have someone burned out in order to succeed in his love affairs, otherwise his cock doesn’t work right for him, haven’t you heard?”

The “chump” shook his head in surprise, and Watt felt his body stiffen with fear. They are led to be burned at the fire of the Mad King Aerys. The whole King’s Landing, all the Seven Kingdoms even, knew about these almost sacred burnings of the king’s, so, there could be no doubt now.

_They cut off a hand for theft_ , Watt repeated to himself, as if praying.

They reached the Red Keep far too soon, they were led through the gates, they passed several buildings, and ended up in the courtyard, where four tall wooden poles were installed in the middle. Watt almost twitched, but then realized that he had nowhere to run, the city guards surrounded him.

_They cut off a hand for theft_ , Watt said with the same confidence.

Before he could finish this thought, he was seized and dragged to the pole. The man who did this, tried not to look into Watt’s eyes, mechanically, he wrapped the boy around with tight ropes, as if he was doing it every day. Watt cringed all over, shut his eyes tightly, but thus he became even more terrified and he had to open his eyes again. At a small distance, on the platform, he saw four figures, the sun shone well on them, so it was easy to observe them.

Two knights in white cloaks stood at the edges, one of them had a hand put on the hilt of the sword, as if he was ready to pull it out and join the battle right away, the other nervously tugged at the clasp of his cloak. In the middle, Watt saw an old man with long silver hair and a beard, judging by what Watt could make out, the old man smiled cheerfully, childishly, as if he was looking forward to an interesting game. It seemed that this child was the one who loved to tear off his toys' heads as a little boy. It was not difficult to guess that it was king Aerys himself. Next to him stood a short, fragile man in a brown cloak and weird-looking hat, he was constantly whispering something to the king, and Aerys chuckled with satisfaction.

_They cut off a hand for theft_ , Watt repeated aimlessly.

His friends were also tied to the neighboring poles, their faces now looked hunted.

“Let me wear black,” Eris shouted in a broken voice, which turned into a screech.

This time no one touched him, not even looked at him. All of them were already as good as dead.

Watt twitched, but the ropes tied him to the pole tightly. He regretted that he had not even tried properly to escape. Now it was too late: the king, by all means, had to get his show. From somewhere in the depths of the courtyard a young man came out, dressed in the same brown cloak and a weird hat as the man on the platform. Watt tried to meet his gaze, but the young man averted his eyes like everyone else. Nobody seemed to want to notice what was going on, pretending that it was completely normal way of things.

One brief moment and green flames flashed around Watt. Through its crackling sound, Aerys clapped his hands joyfully. The fire was fast to work, and the flames quickly gripped Watt's body in their arms, licking him with their burning tongues. The pain tore the boy to pieces, and the smell of his own burning flesh hit his nose. Not restraining himself any longer, Watt cried out with all his might and his clear, not yet cracked voice weaved with others, equally desperate, turning into a mad choir of agony and death.

_They cut off a hand for theft_ , Watt managed to think before the darkness swallowed him forever.


	2. Cersei I

Bright rays of the morning sun engoldened her soft silk curls, caressed the delicate pink skin and played joyfully within green eyes, as if they were actually made of true emeralds. Running a comb through her gorgeous hair, Cersei Lannister smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Today she was truly beautiful, more beautiful than ever, and the good news that her father brought her when she barely woke from sleep was to blame. To tell the truth, even now it sometimes seemed to her that this news was part of her dream, and the only proof of their solid reality was the letter, which now lay in Tywin Lannister’s own solar.

“A raven has flown in from King’s Landing today,” Lord Tywin informed, standing right on the threshold of his daughter’s chamber. It seemed, that it was very long time ago, when Cersei saw her father smiling like this. The last time he looked so entirely pleased was when lady Joanna ‒ his now late wife ‒ was still alive and in a good health.

“It brought important news?” Cersei inquired, sitting up in bed. Her heart started to beat faster, and she was all ears, not even daring to hope.

“Remember, I once promised you that you would wed a prince?” Lord Tywin asked instead of an answer.

“Yes,” Cersei trembled in joyful anticipation, still not believing that her old childhood dream was about to become a solid reality.

She was aware that at the grand and splendid tourney, organized by Lord Tywin in Lannisport to honour the birth of Prince Viserys, her father offered the King her hand for Crown Prince Rhaegar. However, at that time the King did not honour House Lannister with a definite answer, referring to the fact that Cersei was still a child, and everything could change any day. The girl did not know with what exact words the King expressed his thoughts, but this, in all likelihood, was something extremely unpleasant, because her father looked sour for several days after. Lord Tywin felt humiliated, but he put on a brave face. For the sake of achieving such a goal he was ready to give up his pride. He will be proud later when he finally has his way. During all these months he never stopped repeating it to his daughter.

The answer from the king, however, was not a “no”. Cersei still regretted that Prince Rhaegar lost in the last joust to ser Arthur Dane, otherwise he would certainly have laid the queen of love and beauty’s laurel at her feet. Well, if not because of herself, as she was really still too small then, but out of respect for her father.

“Well,” Lord Tywin sat on the edge of his daughter's bed. “There is nothing Tywin Lannister cannot achieve if he so desires. You will become the princess, and later the queen of the Seven Kingdoms! My grandchildren will sit on the Iron Throne.” Long-awaited triumph sounded like a loud trumpet in his voice.

Cersei wanted to scream with happiness, but, like a well-bred lady, she smiled affectionately and kissed her father on both cheeks.

“Get dressed, put yourself in order,” Lord Tywin nodded at the maid looming in the doorway. “And after breakfast you are to come to my solar. Your girlhood is over today, try to digest this. When you get up from this bed, you will turn from a child into an adult woman. Now you have a certain responsibility not only for yourself, but for the House Lannister. No more nonsense, do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” Cersei nodded, continuing to smile all the same. When did she do stupid things? She wanted to ask him this question, but did not dare. Displeasure nudged her, and she pursed her scarlet lips. Again, lord father did not appreciate her lively and quick mind. That’s fine, he will have reasons to be truly proud of her when she becomes a princess, and later a queen.

“And be careful, don’t tell anyone our news until your marriage to the prince is officially announced,” Lord Tywin instructed her in a grim voice and quickly left, the heavy heels of his boots clattered like the ones of a soldier.

Elaine, her maid, helped Cersei get dressed, but the Lannister girl preferred to comb her hair all by herself. She cherished her golden curls too much, and the sight of small hairs remaining on a comb afterwards always saddened and angered her a little bit. However, she entrusted her hairdo to Elaine, the maid knew all to well how to craft real miracles on Cersei’s head, which the girl herself could not manage. While Elaine worked on her hair, Cersei closed her eyes and floated into such a beautiful future, which awaited her soon.

Here they are, together with the prince, standing hand in hand on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, and Rhaegar smiles gently at her, his indigo eyes shining with happiness. A jubilant crowd cheer at them, people shout out her name, and she stands and enjoys their love, absorbing it in herself, being entirely filled with it. In all the big world there is no feeling nicer. And then Cersei will give birth to an heir. Undoubtedly, it will be a boy, but she really could not properly visualize him, because she still has not decided who he should look like, her or Rhaegar, because they are both so beautiful. Perhaps, it’s better that the heir to the throne takes after his father, and her daughters will inherit her lovely appearance.

This boy, who did not yet have a name, and whose parents hardly spoke to each other more than a couple of times in their entire lives, will sit on the Iron Throne in the future, and he should be a really handsome man. But at first, his father will sit there, and next to him Cersei as his faithful companion. In the evenings, lying next to each other in bed, they will discuss state affairs and decide upon fates of the common folk. If only the Stranger would come sooner after Aerys ‒ this nasty crazy old man. Maybe she will sit on the throne herself, as several years ago a maegi told her that she would die on the Iron Throne, and now the prophecy began to come true.

“Why are you so happy, sister?”

Cersei opened her eyes, returning with much regret from the Red Kepp back to the Casterly Rock, and found herself smiling happily. Looking in the mirror, she met with the same emerald eyes of her brother Jaime.

“What are you doing here?” Cersei asked with displeasure.

“You're late for breakfast,” Jaime pouted. “Tyrion and I are waiting for you and starving to death.”

“I would be glad if this monster of a brother died soon,” Cersei snorted and added, turning to Elaine: “You may go.”

Elaine curtsied dutifully and left her mistress, perhaps too hastily. They all sympathized a little with Tyrion and felt sorry for him: an unhappy boy, and so unlucky to be born a dwarf! But no one felt sorry for her, whom this cripple deprived of a mother, and who was still forced to blush with shame every time when Tyrion appeared among their guests. Prince Rhaegar will certainly never see the damned dwarf again, she will take care of it.

“Don't say that,” Jaime said sternly. “He is our blood”.

“It’s not for you to tell me what to say and what not,” Cersei exclaimed. _Soon I will become queen, and you will obey me, like my other subjects._

“Why are you so vile?” Jaime came closer and put his hands around her waist. “I came to share your joy, you never told me what has inspired you so much.”

“And I won’t tell you,” Cersei tried to free herself, but he held her tight. She liked Jaime's strong arms, his masculine scent, his hot breath, which she now felt on her neck, but Jaime was not her dream. Her dream was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, whom her brother was not even suitable to squire.

“What's wrong with you?” Jaime tried to catch her lips, but she dodged.

“Let go,” she said strictly.

Startled, Jaime released her. His green eyes now looked like wild fire, and Cersei was a little sorry for him. Just a little bit. From the height of her luck, she could even share a few drops of happiness with her brother, who would stay here in Casterly Rock, marry the stupid Lisa Tully, and she will be soon giving birth to the new Lannisters, while Cersei will rule the country side by side with Rhaegar.

“Let's go have breakfast,” she said cheerfully, as if not noticing Jaime’s displeasure.

At breakfast even the presence of Tyrion irritated her less than usual, although he talked all kinds of nonsense. This little freak could not stand the silence and tried to fill it with his stupid chatter all the time. Today Cersei, immersed in her dreams, let his stories and flat jokes pass by. She wanted so much to tell her friends about her newly acquired happiness, as until everyone knew about it, her joy was incomplete. Cersei already imagined their mouths fall open with envy.

She finished the meal and rose from the table, stopping Tyrion in the middle of the word.

“I'll leave you,” Cersei giggled. “Thank you for the company.”

She went upstairs to her father's solar, fluttering up the stairs, however, the sight of Lord Tywin erased a blissful smile from her face. Father looked at her sharply, as if the raven and the wonderful morning never happened. Lord Tywin nodded to the wooden chair in front of him and returned to the letter he was writing when Cersei entered. She sat down, and she had to wait a little longer till her father finished. This was commonplace, Tywin Lannister never interrupted his affairs, even for the sake of his children.

Finally, Lord Tywin sealed the letter and set the quill aside.

“Do you understand what the news I told you today means to our family?” He asked gravely, looking directly into his daughter's eyes. His gaze was heavy, stony even, and Cersei dropped her eyes for a moment, she never won this duel of stares with her father.

“Yes, father,” Cersei answered obediently.

“This engagement cost me too much, I crawled too low, wheedling Aerys, so I hope you don’t do anything to cause the King to break it off,” Lord Tywin frowned.

“Who do you take me for, father?” Uttered Cersei, offended.

“For who you are,” flashed Lord Tywin. “For a stupid girl. Be sweet with the Prince, fulfill all his wishes, charm him, luckily, this you are quite capable of. Stay away from the King if you can. And, most importantly, do not start any friendships with other men, and may the Seven save you from taking a lover. And if you are silly enough to do it, be sure that no one knows about it. These men can afford whores, but you are to remain faithful to the Crown Prince, otherwise your children may be deprived of their rights to the Iron Throne. Calm your vanity, be humble. You can be proud of yourself when you are alone in front of the mirror. Even I had to pretty humiliate myself before Aerys in order to secure a prince for you.”

“Of course, father, I will do everything as you said,” Cersei portrayed utter innocence, this she could do very well. Why would she want any lovers if she had Prince Rhaegar? She even rejected Jaime for his sake.

“I will keep an eye on you. I hope you won’t let your family down and live up to all my expectations. In a week we are leaving for King's Landing.”

“And Jaime?”

“Jaime will stay here,” Lord Tywin said as if it was obvious. “He has his own destiny, in no way connected with yours.”

In this play, Tywin Lannister distributed and composed roles for everyone. Well, Cersei got one of the main ones, and she should have been happy, but the separation from her brother saddened her a little, she would have preferred Jaime to always stay by her side like a faithful dog. But for the sake of wedding to the Prince, one will have to give something up. As soon as she becomes queen, she will immediately call Jaime to her court, and then she will see whom he will listen to, his beloved sister, or his father, who has been preparing for his eldest son the boring life of Lord of Casterly Rock from Jaime’s early days.

“Is what I’ve told you clear enough?” Asked Lord Tywin, rising from his seat and towering over his daughter like a rock on which stood their family castle.

“Yes,” Cersei smiled. “You can count on me”.

“Good,” it was evident from the eyes of the lord father that he did not really believe her. “You are free to go.”

Cersei slammed the door of her father's solar a little harder than she probably should have. It’s all right, let her father consider her a fool, she will show herself, in the end, she is the one to be queen, and not Lord Tywin.

The next days were devoted to packing. Cersei regretted that she did not have enough time to have new dresses made for her, but when she talked about this with her father, he only looked at her reproachfully. Cersei knew that he considered such things stupid and excessive, but she really wanted to impress the Prince. The last time he saw her, she was a small child, now he had to find the woman that would make him truly happy.

Jaime continued to sulk from the very day she did not let him kiss her. Once, stepping over her pride, she went to put up with him, but he again let his hands snake under her skirts. Despite father’s ban, she had to tell him the truth.

“You should know,” Cersei told her brother in a mentoring tone. “Now I am breaking the order from our lord father. I can’t tell anyone about this until the official announcement, but soon I will become the bride, and then the wife of Rhaegar Targaryen,” saying this, she could not resist a triumphant smile.

Her silly brother's face showed surprise, and then disappointment, which he could not hide in time.

“Aren't you glad that I will be queen?” Cersei inquired surprised.

“You always wanted this,” Jaime said in a somber tone, trying to squeeze a sort of a smile out of himself. Whatever his lips curved, it looked more like a grimace. “Well, congratulations, your dream is about to come true.”

“Silly Jaime,” she gently ruffled his golden hair. Cersei knew that her brother liked it. “What did you think? That you and I will run away to Essos and starve there to death?”

From his drooping emerald eyes it was clear that he was thinking about something like that. What a fool he is! Poor Jaime, without her, he would probably be completely lost.

“We could ...” he whispered and looked at her with a look full of unexpressed plea. This, of course, could not fail to flatter her. Cersei was pleased to know that he would suffer for her, even when she was far from here, married to another man.

“When the old king dies,” Cersei promised, interrupting him, “I will invite you to the King’s Landing. Rhaegar will find you a place at court, and our lord father will not dare to refuse his queen.”

“We’ll see,” Jaime uttered in offended voice. Now he did not even try to portray any joy. “I wish you happiness!”

He stood up abruptly and walked away, not looking back at his sister. It’s all right, let him go wild, and then he will come running back to her, coaxing like a pet dog. Did he really think she could run away with him? What nonsense! Poor Jaime is very naive, almost like a young girl. And yet, his father appreciates him, and Cersei is considered an ordinary fool. How father is wrong, but time will soon put everything in its place.

Cersei did not think about her brother anymore, she was occupied with more pleasant chores. Packing took up most of her time, while in her free hours, she allowed herself walks. Sometimes she climbed onto the castle wall facing the sea and watched the waves lick the white rocks. Sometimes the water gently touched the stone, as if caressing it, sometimes it struck with its fist, and there were times, when it tried to bounce with all its strength. But the rock stood, stood for hundreds of years, and will stand one hundred more. And she, Cersei, she is the same as this rock, it cannot be defeated neither by soft flattery, nor by rough blows. She will stand and outlive everyone, she will get everything, whatever she wants, as she got the Dragon Prince now.

On the appointed day, she and her father stood by the luxurious wagon that would take them to King's Landing. Cersei shone like the golden sun, the whole house was out here to see them off, led by Tyrion and Jaime. Lord Tywin gave his eldest son the last instructions in his usual manner, and Cersei gently kissed him on the cheek. Jaime pretended to kiss her too, but his lips never touched her skin. Still sulking, miserable fool. So be it, she will forgive him that. Tyrion received only dry nods from his father and sister, but he did not seem to be particularly upset about this. He did not expect more. Perhaps he is even glad that they were leaving.

The wagon set off, leading Cersei to her new, beautiful life. Father stared out the window, his eyes were strained, again he was thinking about something instead of relaxing and enjoying a pleasant ride, as his daughter did. Behind them stood the great and impregnable Casterly Rock, but there was no window in the back wall of the wagon, and even if Cersei wanted to turn around, she would not be able to see her childhood home. However, she did not feel such a desire, the nest of the House Lannister remained in her past, she closed that dull page and did not want to read it again. Now something more magnificent awaits her: King’s Landing and all Seven Kingdoms.


	3. Arthur I

A lump forms in his throat, he wants to run to the closest window, open it wide, lean out and inhale, at last, the fresh air of the Red Keep gardens, but his service requires to stand still as if he is one of the expensive chairs that were once produced by the best craftsmen of Qohor, and now decorate the Small Council meeting room.

Arthur cast a glance at ser Lewyn Martell, who had frozen a few steps away from him. The latter’s right hand, as always, rested on the hilt of his sword, as ser Lewyn was ready to rush to defend his King at any moment. In the current state of affairs, this would be relatively easy, as in the presence of the King only the white cloaks – members of the Kingsguard, the personal guards of the monarch – were allowed to carry weapons. If need be, Arthur should have done the same, he just was afraid that instead of the enemy of the crown, Dawn – his family sword – might pierce Mad Aerys himself. These thoughts are treacherous and too dangerous, but Arthur could not easily get rid of them. Thanks to the Seven, the spies of the Red Keep had yet to learn how to read other people’s minds.

The kingsguards stood too close to the King, and Arthur was unable to get rid of the totally unpleasant stench emanating from the unwashed royal body. It mingled with the strong smell of perfume that came from Varys, the master of whisperers, and turned into an odious nauseating mixture that has always accompanied council meetings lately when Aerys honoured them with his presence. The King sat in gloomy silence, surveying the members of the Small Council gathered in front of him with his dark, heavy eyes. All were present except the Hand of the King – Lord Tywin Lannister, who was currently at home at Casterly Rock.

“Why keep silent?” the King suddenly barked, droplets of saliva flew out of his mouth and, sparkling in the sun, landed on the polished surface of the table.

Arthur should have long been accustomed to a sudden change of mood in Aerys, but he still flinched and faintly exhaled. Such outbursts of rage could have easily ended up for anyone with a loss of status and place at court, and even worse, with a loss of life.

“Your Grace,” Varys began in a silky tone, as if not noticing the King’s wrath at all. “None of us were given the floor. We are waiting for your instructions.”

“You are truly idiots, all of you,” Aerys snorted with prominent displeasure. “Well, Varys, what have your little birds sang to you?” the King's mouth twisted in a vile sneer.

“The waters are not calm, Your Grace,” Varys shook his head dejectedly.

Looking at the powdered and perfumed eunuch, Arthur thought that Varys’ traveling with a troupe of actors around the Free Cities was not for nothing. He learned a lot from them, and even for Arthur Dayne it was hard to distinguish sincerity from pretense, still something in his looks warned the knight that everything that was said or done by Varys was just a tricky game to one degree or another.

“What does it mean?” Aerys demanded an explanation.

“In Dorne the disaffection with the Throne broods like dornish red, Your Grace,” Varys continued. “The princess is unhappy that she was not able to secure the heir to the throne for her daughter Elia.”

“It is yet to be known who was most lucky here,” put in Lucerys Velaryon, the master of ships.

Artur tensed: everyone knew pretty well that Velaryon did not like Rhaegar, considering him too weak-willed, but insulting the Crown Prince in front of the Small Council and the King himself was already too much. The King, however, did not pay attention to such an unflattering statement about his eldest son and heir.

“Dorne should limit their ambitions,” Velaryon added.

“Forgive me, Lord Lucerys,” Varys said softly. “But the Dornish princess doesn't think so. And in the light of my next news, any dissatisfaction in one of the kingdoms can be dangerous.”

“Stop putting an act, Varys, we all already know, that you are pretty good at it,” Aerys shouted, the fear of a little boy, left alone in some fearsome place, cut through the King's voice with shrilly tones.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” the eunuch immediately bowed his head meekly. “My little birds have told me that the warden of the North is making alliances with two great houses.”

“Rickard Stark?” Aerys wondered, fidgeting in his chair. “I thought the old wolf had turned into an iceberg a long time ago, for I have not heard of him for ages,” the King laughed with a dry creaky laugh, exposing half-rotten teeth.

“It was my mistake, Your Grace,” Varys said. “I did not look at the North at all, and the danger came from right there. Rickard Stark secured an engagement for his eldest son and heir Brandon with the eldest daughter of Hoster Tully and plans to offer the hand of his only daughter to Robert Baratheon. I dare to recall, Your Grace, that Lord Rickard also has the support of the Valley, and the union of all these houses can...”

“Enough, enough,” Aerys waved his hands. “Treason! Send the soldiers north, grab that traitor of a Stark and drag him here! I will deal with him personally!”

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who sat silently to this moment, spoke up. “But a direct threat to the warden of the North can anger his people. The northerners are very faithful folk, they will go after their lord, and given the support from Tully, the Baratheons and the Arrens and Dorne's dissatisfaction with the crown ...”

“Your speeches, ser Gerold, smell of treason, just like the affairs of the old wolf.” Aerys narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Artur tensed; all this could not end well. “Stark is a traitor, and his place is at the stake!”

“We have no evidence, Your Grace,” the Lord Commander stood his ground. “We can do this if only we are completely sure, but, I believe, we are not. Do you agree with me, lord Lucerys?”

“Perhaps there is an inkling of the truth in your words,” Velaryon nodded. The master of ships was devoted to the King up to his last bone, so his opinion weighed more than that of Gerold Hightower, known for his sympathy for Prince Rhaegar. “What will the rest of you say? Staunton?”

“I agree with you,” the master of laws slightly bowed his head. He, too, was loyal to the King, but without the support of Velaryon he would not have dared to speak.

“And you, Chelsted?” Velaryon continued questioning. Arthur realized that he was covering his back. If Aerys suddenly became furious, the master of ships did not want to be left alone against the rage of the Mad King.

“Me?” the master of coin nervously smoothed his thin hair; he clearly did not want to comment. “I do not know; it is difficult to answer such a question right away. We cannot take risks, keeping a traitor free ...”

“That much is clear even without your stupid reasoning,” the King screeched, and those present fell immediately silent and turned their eyes to him.

Poor Chelsted went pale, it seemed he was about to faint like an impressionable young lady, the rest sat with their lips pursed, and only Varys looked too calm.

“Bring the traitors here!” Aerys raged on. “And you still dare to contradict me? You are all traitors! I'll get to you! I know that you are just waiting for me to die, and my fool of the son to sit on the throne, so that you can manipulate him as you wish!”

The members of the council were silent, at such moments when the mind of the Mad King was so agitated and disturbed, try and reason with him was useless. It was only possible to sit quietly and wait for his attention to switch to something else. If any fool would continue to stand his ground, he could easily end his days at the stake.

Aerys fell silent as quickly as he exploded. His dark eyes, which resembled deep and dangerous caves, gazed into space, as if he had forgotten where he was, or his mind was completely in another place. This went on for several minutes, and the frightened lords began to stir again, but their movements were barely noticeable. The first to break the silence was Varys:

“Your Grace,” the eunuch always uttered the royal title with great respect and obedience, so that no one should have doubts that the master of whisperers was completely and utterly faithful to his King, “there is another option, more cunning. We need to act cunningly, just like the villains, we should outsmart them.”

The King jumped up:

“And how are you going to outwit them, huh?” He demanded.

“Firstly, we need to resolve the issue with Dorne. Surely, if our suspicions are true, the traitors have already sent their people there,” Varys paused.

“Why didn't you do it first?” the King was indignant. He began to get annoyed again, and Arthur was worried that all this conversation, despite Varys' caution, would end with a fatal decision to arrest Rickard Stark. Regarding its consequences, Arthur absolutely agreed with the eunuch: four great houses could rebel against the throne at once, and even Dorne, if not soothed, can be an addition.

“I didn’t have such orders, Your Grace,” said Varys dutifully. “But first, we need to offer Dorne something substantial ...”

“We can offer them to betroth Prince Viserys to Doran’s eldest daughter, Arianne,” Velaryon hastened to speak. It seemed that, in case of success, he did not want to give all the praise to Varys alone and, realizing the logic of his proposal, the master of ships decided to take a chance.

“The Dornish wanted the Crown Prince, and they only get the second in line,” said Staunton.

“We have nothing more to offer them,” objected Velaryon. “Do you agree, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” the King snapped. “You, Lord Lucerys, will go to the Dornish Princess. And do not wait too long, go right after the wedding of the Prince.”  
“Surely, my king,” Velaryon bowed his head respectfully. “Allow me a brief stop on Driftmark on the way back, I have not been at home for a long time.”

“Good,” the King said blankly. “What about Starks, Varys?” Aerys squinted at the eunuch.

“We can take hostages from the Starks,” having said this, Varys paused for a moment, watching the impression he made. “Of course, we will not call them that. Lady Lyanna can become the lady in waiting for the Queen, and Lord Brandon can be found a place at court.”

“And Tully? Arrens? Baratheons?” Aerys asked annoyed. “Do you drag all of them to the court, so that they rebel right here?”

“No, we won’t touch them yet,” Varys explained. “Rickard will not be up to anything while his son and daughter are in danger, and if other Houses decide to do something, it will only bring confusion to their alliance. In addition, this will help delay the marriage for both Starks.”

“Clever,” Staunton burst out.

Aerys had a crooked grin on his face, he made a sound like a pig grunt, and then laughed. His laughter resembled the one of a child who saw someone fall into a dirty puddle. However, looking into Aerys’ crazy eyes, it became clear that the mind of this man had long been damaged, and therefore his laughter seemed frightening to the rest. Arthur remained unperturbed, but the other lords smiled politely to match the King.

“Good, Varys,” said the King, still laughing. “Today you have pleased me. What is with the Prince? Already back from his favourite ruins?”

“Prince Rhaegar returned from Summerhall yesterday,” sir Gerold reported.

Aerys turned his head and looked directly at Arthur, the expression of his eyes seemed suspicious to the guard, as if Aerys had started some kind of mischievous trick, which should amuse him well. Of course, the King knew that Dayne was his son’s best friend, but that didn’t explain such a strange look.

“Good,” Aerys grinned viciously, still not taking his eyes off Arthur. A grin twisted the King's mouth, making his face equally insane and sinister. Arthur caught himself thinking that he would love to step straight out of the courtroom onto the battlefield. He would rather fight the Smiling Knight again than face the King.

“Enough,” Aerys finally turned away and, grunting, rose from his chair.

Without even honouring anyone with a nod of his head, the King left the courtroom. Arthur and Lewyn Martell, as they were supposed to, followed him. Artur looked out of the corner of his eye at his brother in arms, but his face did not express anything, remaining impenetrable. The mood of this man could never be guessed, and Dayne did not dare to ask questions. The two of them still had a whole day in the company of Aerys the Mad.

Only in the evening, when darkness has already completely covered the surroundings, Arthur finally found himself in the White Sword Tower. Awfully tired, he opened the door to his small sleeping cell, which was located on the second floor next to the same ones, belonging to his brothers. Stepping on the threshold he suddenly froze, for none other than Varys was sitting at his tiny table.

“Good evening, ser Arthur,” the eunuch smiled, it seemed that Arthur's surprise amused him. “You will forgive me that I do not stand up, but I already did quite enough of walking for the day.”

“Good evening, Lord Varys.” Arthur finally stepped into his cell, his fingers gripping the hilt of the Dawn. “I suppose I shouldn’t even ask how you got here.”

“You may ask,” Varys' voice was as soft as the eunuch himself. “But I'm afraid I will refuse you an answer. Who needs a master of whisperers who shares his secrets so easily? Pray tell, should the legendary Sword of the Morning fear the modest eunuch?”

“Right you are,” Arthur agreed with a grin. At the same time, he thought that anyone in the capital should beware Varys, from a simple city dweller to the King himself. “What can I do for you?”

“Not for me, ser Arthur, not for me,” Varys said mysteriously.

“For whom then, I wonder?” Dayne was surprised, but the eunuch did not answer him. The expression on his face turned all at once from grovelling and obliging into serious.

“How's the Prince doing?” Varys asked suddenly, and Artur could not help feeling that a threat sounded in the voice of the master of whisperers.

“Not too bad, I should think,” Arthur sank into a chair next to Varys. He had already managed to take off his armor, and now only a light shirt and breeches were left on him. “If you want something from the Prince, then you better ask him about it yourself.”

“I don’t need anything from His Highness,” Varys shook his head. “Only his increased involvement in the affairs of the realm.”

“What do you mean?” Artur grew suspicious.

“The King is sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, which will never let him go,” Varys' small eyes looked directly at Dayne. “And if the Prince does not try to influence his father at least a little, other advisers will take his place, much less honest and honorable.”

“Why are you saying all this to me?” Asked Arthur.

“You are a friend of His Highness,” Varys explained. “I'm sure you want him well. If nothing is done, then we will soon be on the verge of a civil war. The people are dissatisfied with the King, this discontent is growing, and His Grace does nothing to appease the Lords, only, on the contrary, angers them more and more. Today I managed to dissuade him from one dangerous action, but who knows if I will succeed again. Rickard Stark may not give up his children, he can later ignore their presence in the capital, there are so many opportunities, and they all do not promise anything good to the Targaryens. Prince Rhaegar, on the contrary, is loved by the common folk, and all we need now is a king popular enough among the ordinary people who can unite the country.”

“What you are saying, Varys,” Arthur whispered, “sounds like ...”

“Hush,” the eunuch pressed a finger to his lips. “You are a sensible person, ser Arthur. That is why, I came to you today. Now let me wish you good night.”

“Good night,” Arthur said when the door behind Varys had already closed. Today, the knight certainly will not be able to sleep peacefully.

Dayne was angry with Varys for this strange conversation, but at the same time he could not help but admit that the eunuch was right in many ways, if not in all he said. Arthur thought a lot about this, about the King, about those who surrounded him and about the Prince who studied martial arts in between reading his books and playing his harp just because he had read about a certain prophecy. Rhaegar definitely spent more time in the well-stocked library of the Red Keep than anywhere else; he was too distant and too withdrawn.

Arthur did not know what exactly attracted people in Rhaegar, what attracted the knight himself? Perhaps this was the devotion to those whom Rhaegar called his friends, or justice, the poor were flattered by his simplicity and cordiality he used when speaking with them. Women had a weakness for his beauty and the songs that he sang with his voice, "as silver as his long soft hair." Dayne has repeatedly heard his sister, Lady Ashara, praising Rhaegar Targaryen, as she chattered with her friends, and even jokingly offering her brother to give her his place in the Kingsguard.

Rhaegar was a good and fair man, but is this enough to make him a good king? But what Varys suggested, it... Artur was afraid to say the word in his own thoughts, even more so to speak with the Prince on the subject. Dayne trusted his friend enough to know that Rhaegar would not betray the knight to his father, but the assumption itself could deeply hurt the Prince, who was already prone to melancholy.

Is it worth discussing this with Rhaegar at all? Dayne still could not decide. Damned eunuch, as always, he tried to do the dirty work using the others, and now it was Arthur himself who was used. Varys loaded him with too heavy a task, Dayne was a warrior, a damn good warrior, the protector of the royal family. He fought bravely, in this he was the best, and for this he occupied a well-deserved place among the Kingsguard. Affairs of state were completely beyond his means and interests, and Dayne regretted that he had allowed Varys to force himself into this web. But Dayne would never be able to outplay the eunuch, except to cut him in two. No wonder Varys acquired the nickname Spider at court.

Such thoughts pursued Arthur during the next few days, he did not stop thinking about it, accompanying the King daily, and he was afraid of his own thoughts. Sometimes, when he looked at Aerys, it seemed to Dayne that he knew everything and now he would call his eternal companion Rossart so that the pyromancer would kindle a pretty bonfire for the traitor.

When ser Harlan Grandison took his place by the King, Arthur went to the stables. It was evening, and Dayne had little time to loosen up on his faithful stallion’s back, and he also wanted to clear his head. If only the wind had completely cleared it of the dust that had settled there after meeting with Varys.

Looking for Willan – his squire, whom he sent to saddle his horse, Arthur stumbled upon Prince Rhaegar instead. The heir to the throne was dressed for riding and also waited while his horse was saddled. He was quietly speaking to his own squire – Richard Lonmouth. Upon seeing Arthur, the Prince smiled warmly: the corners of his lips rose only slightly, but Rhaegar could rarely be seen offering a broader smile.

“Hello, Arthur,” said Rhaegar.

“My prince,” Artur bowed his head.

“Please leave these formalities,” Rhaegar shook his head. “We are alone here, so we can be a bit of ourselves. What drove you outside?”

“I wanted to get a little exercise,” Arthur grinned. “My service, as you know, does not imply increased mobility.”

“For myself, I truly hope,” a ghostly smile fell on Rhaegar's face again, “that your service will remain just as boring.”

“I will pray to the Seven for it to be like that,” Dayne answered with mock resignation. “What about you? What made you leave your confinement?”

“A wonderful evening,” Rhaegar looked up at the sky with admiration. “Such extraordinary, bright colors, and the air is unusually fresh. In the castle I often feel stuffy. Since we run across each other, anyway, will you keep me company?”

Arthur agreed without doubt. They stood still for a while, while the found Willan was preparing Artur's horse, and when everything was finally ready, both squires were allowed to leave. The Lonmouth boy, judging by the completely bored look upon his face, dreamed of going to bed. Dayne accompanied by the Prince rode out of the gate and galloped towards the forest.

Having thoroughly chased the horses at a gallop and sweating pretty much, the friends slowed down to a walk. Artur wanted to start a conversation about what was now bothering him, but he could not decide how to approach his friend with the topic. The Prince was silent, he gazed around in amazement, as if absorbing the beauty surrounding him, the flames of sunset burning in the west reflected in his eyes.

“The realm has reached turbulent waters, you know,” Arthur finally spoke.

Rhaegar shuddered, as if awakened from a dream.

“What are you talking about?” He asked anxiously.

As a response, Arthur relayed to the Prince everything that had happened at the Small Council.

“Poor Viserys,” the Prince sighed, having heard about the King’s intention to betroth his youngest son to Arianne Martell, “I thought that at least he would be allowed to marry as he wishes, his wife would not become queen, and he owes nothing to the realm.”

“It is not for me to tell you how this happens,” Arthur shrugged.

“Yes,” Rhaegar agreed. “You are certainly right.”

“I would like to hear what you think about the Starks,” Arthur began cautiously.

“I am glad that my father was prevented from making the wrong decision,” said Rhaegar with deep concern.

“He listens to very few,” Arthur shook his head. “I saw how hard it was myself. In addition, most of his advisors are either cowards or people acting in their own interests. Rossart’s influence over your father grows with every passing moment, and remember my word, we will see the pyromancer in the Small Council. The King now needs a completely different advice.”

“You mean me?” Asked Rhaegar directly.

Arthur glanced at his friend, trying to understand whether he was angry or not, but the Prince's face still remained calm, like the smooth surface of a lake.

“Yes,” Dayne said finally. “You will take his place sooner or later.”

“If my father wanted my advice,” Rhaegar spoke softly, but his voice gave out iron tones, “he would have asked for it. I'm afraid you overestimate my influence on him, Arthur.”

“You understand yourself that this must be put to an end,” Dayne blurted out in desperation.

“Arthur,” Rhaegar whispered, and his face twisted. “I can't kill my father.”

Arthur did not answer. This conversation clearly could not be included in the list of his victories. Dayne glanced at the silhouette of the Red Keep looming ahead. The sun had almost sunk under the horizon, but its last rays flooded the sky and cast bright scarlet reflections on the towers of the Keep. This whole picture produced some frightening grandeur, making even the legendary Sword of the Morning feel insignificant and unprotected.

“It’s only a short time, that we should wait” said Rhaegar unexpectedly. “Everything will change soon. All that happens now does not matter, it will pass sooner or later. But a long winter is coming, and we must be ready for it.”

Dayne did not answer his friend. He was a warrior, a man down to earth, and did not believe in snarks, gramkins, and other nonsense that scared little children; he would not have believed in dragons if he had not personally seen their skulls in the throne room. Rhaegar, as far as Arthur knew him, was wrapped in a cloak of mysticism, magic and ancient prophecies, one of which had haunted the Prince for a long time. Arthur considered all this to be stupid, but kept his opinion to himself, because once he and Rhaegar had a big argument over that. The Prince was aware about Artur’s attitude and tolerated it, and Arthur knew about the Prince’s passion and remained silent.

They spurred the horses and have quickly rushed back, talking about all kinds of nonsense and trying to forget about Aerys, conspiracies and prophecies. However, the reality pressed them with all its might when Arthur and Rhaegar entered the gate. Fires were burned again in the Red Keep, and a sickening smell of burnt flesh hit the nose. Arthur glanced at Rhaegar: pain and confusion mixed in the Prince's sad eyes.


	4. Rhaegar I

Green flecks flashed on the window panes, playing a strange and bizarre game with each other. From here, from the spacious and cozy library of the Red Keep, this game seemed alluring, cheerful and vibrant, but as soon as you got up and looked out into the yard, you could only see new fires lit by the Mad King. The game was for survival, and no one had been able to win it yet.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen did not want to stand up. It was enough for him to see the green shimmers, that he had been long accustomed to, and he immediately understood what was happening. What he did not want was to look at the fires again, as he has had quite enough of them recently. Rhaegar was reading a heavy volume ‒ another boring work composed by a boring maester, but the Prince has learned over the years to look for the bits of useful knowledge in such seemingly useless books, so now he was even able to get some pleasure from them. However, at this moment when the green flecks were playing again on the glass, Rhaegar could no longer concentrate. His own sad thoughts pushed the words that were drawn on the parchment by a wrinkled hand of a maester away from his head.

_Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land_. These words of the well-known Westerosi saying, which originally belonged to Rhaegar’s grandfather Jaehaerys, were deeply branded in the Prince’s mind, like a slave’s mark, and he could not free himself from them, no matter how much he sometimes wished.

Rhaegar loved fire, like many other Targaryens before him, like his own father. The Prince liked the warmth that the flames provided, he liked to watch how they trembled, pacified by the stone hearth and not having the opportunity to escape. Rhaegar liked to watch the dance of fiery tongues for hours, but, unlike his father, the Prince never wanted to set the flames free and destroy everything around him. He did not like blood and death, did not like fights, although he was able to become a good knight.

Rhaegar could not understand why the words of his house “Fire and Blood” always meant only destruction and death in people’s minds. After all, flame meant passion and love, warmth and comfort, and blood meant life, the blood of fathers and mothers flew in the veins of their children, and then in their children’s children, and so it ran for centuries. There was a small part of Aegon the Conqueror in Rhaegar, as well as a small part of Aerys the Mad.

The Prince had memories of his father from the time before he had began to slide into insanity. The King was friendlier then, he often talked to his son, tried to teach him something, proudly retold the glorious history of their family to little Rhaegar. One of the very first memories the Prince had was how he sat on his father’s lap, and the King showed him a book with many pictures. Surely this was a book about dragons. Even then, Aerys showed some odd behaviour, but nobody paid much attention. He was friendly, cheerful and generous, rather smart, he liked to start great projects, which he never brought to an end. Probably, even if half of Aerys’ ideas were implemented, they would all now live in an ideal state.

But then these oddities started to appear more and more often, the King found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on something, his moods changed so fast that they, like the weather, could not be predicted, and outbursts of anger came on like a sudden storm that destroyed everything in its path. But again no one was worried, and life in the Seven Kingdoms took its usual course until the rebellion of the Darklyns from Duskendale.

At that time, Rhaegar was already eighteen years old, and he, together with Tywin Lannister, participated in a siege undertaken to free Aerys, who, due to his own carelessness, had been taken hostage by the Darklyns. It was Lord Tywin who was the first to tell Rhaegar that he would be a better king than his own father. It happened just in the days of the siege, at one of the military councils, and the words of the King’s Hand stunned Rhaegar. Returning to his tent, the Prince could not sleep all night. His father could die, and then Rhaegar would be on the Iron Throne. The Prince knew for his entire life that he was to rule, but this always seemed to him something far away. Now, this opportunity stood right in front of him and looked into his eyes. But is he ready, will he cope? Then these thoughts visited the Prince also for the first time.

The captivity at the Darklyns completely damaged the King’s mind, and from that moment he was never the same again, he was seized by suspiciousness and paranoia, Aerys saw enemies in everyone who surrounded him, even in his own son. Rhaegar was unable to tell when exactly his father went mad, when something in his head changed so much that there was no way back. Did this happen before the Duskendale, and the captivity only accelerated the inevitable destruction of his personality, or was it the Darklyns who made that shift? Rhaegar often reflected on this and looked for disturbing signs in himself.

As soon as it became clear to the Prince that his father was insane, a secret fear of losing his mind started to pursue Rhaegar. He often compared himself to his father and wondered if he would ever be overtaken by the same madness. Many after Tywin Lannister repeated that Rhaegar would become a worthy ruler, and the Prince was afraid that he would be a copy his father. He was afraid not to live up to the expectations, to destroy the kingdom and, worst of all, to hurt his family. Rhaegar saw all the horrors that had happened with the connivance of Aerys, but he did not dare to do something really significant, fearing to make it worse.

The Prince dropped his head on his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, the fires in the courtyard had already gone out, but he still could see the green flashes before him and that did not give Rhaegar peace. He sighed quietly, straightened up, opened his eyes and stared in the book. The last conversation with Arthur Dayne awoke his previous fears again, but Rhaegar resolutely set the disturbing thoughts aside. He had to concentrate, he had to read, search and find, he should not become Aerys.

_Crone, give me wisdom_ , he begged. _Give me strength to do everything right. Warrior, deliver me from fear and give determination. Mother, show me your mercy._

“My prince,” the voice of the kingsguard Oswell Whent came from behind.

“Oswell?” Rhaegar lifted his head from the book, giving the knight a quick nod, but he still didn’t have enough power in him to smile properly.

“I have been told to escort you to the throne room,” said ser Oswell. “Lord Tywin and his daughter have arrived, and your father ...”

“No explanation needed,” Rhaegar stood up. “I ought to meet my bride properly, of course. Let's see what this lioness is like,” he added in a more relaxed and even slightly playful tone. He was pretty good at putting on masks when circumstances required.

“Are you afraid she will scratch you hard with her claws?” Went grinned. In his inner circle, Rhaegar was quite close with ser Oswell. Many were annoyed by the kingsguard's specific humor, but the Prince found it appealing, as Oswell's jokes often helped to defuse the oppressive atmosphere and distract the Prince from his somber thoughts. Moreover, Rhaegar knew that ser Oswell, despite his funny mood, always remained a faithful servant and reliable friend and warrior.

“The dragon should not be afraid of the lion,” Rhaegar retorted. _Although, if Tywin Lannister is considered, then the dragon can also escape running with the tail between its legs_ , he thought to himself, but did not speculate on the idea out loud. Within the walls of the Red Keep, this thought sounded too dangerous.

“In the end, you can always simply burn her,” Oswell laughed, but stopped short, looking at the Prince’s face. Rhaegar did not like this joke as it touched very sensitive spot. Whoever Cersei Lannister is, he will never be like his father.

“How is the King today?” Rhaegar asked suddenly. At the court of King Aerys, such a question no longer had any relation to the physical condition of the King, but was implied to find out the current mood of a madman.

“Quite bearable, Your Highness,” said ser Oswell. “He smiles since morning.”

This was what Rhaegar liked the least. The smile in case of Aerys lost the meaning of contentment and complacency, it appeared on the face of the Mad King every time he was visited by a certain brilliant idea, which appeared thus only to himself. Such ideas never ended well for those around him, and Rhaegar was worried that his father would think of another crazy trick from which no one would be able to restrain him, including the Prince himself.

Aerys was surrounded by ambitious cowards, but Rhaegar considered himself no better than them. The ambition was not in his character, he did not need the throne. He perceived his lot in life as a duty that he had to fulfill with humility. When for a brief moment Rhaegar considered himself the prince that was promised in the prophecies, that had always captivated him so, this duty did not burden the heir to the throne, because all this had a supreme goal for which any sacrifice would be justified. However, having finally decided that he was the most ordinary prince, and not any savior, Rhaegar bent again under the burden of duty.

He did not want to rule, did not want to lead an army. Despite his previous mistake, Rhaegar was convinced that his son would be the promised prince. Then everything will change, everything will pass, this child will pull the Seven Kingdoms together around him and help them survive the long winter. As for Rhaegar himself, he will always be by the side of his son, becoming not only his father, but his friend and mentor. That was the part assigned to him either by the Gods, or by someone else. And since Rhaegar was soon to get married, then the birth of the promised prince is not very far off.

“Your Highness,” ser Oswell touched his sleeve. “You turned pale. Pray, are you really so worried?”

“No,” Rhaegar shook his head, forcing a weak smile. “It's my duty, isn't it? I don’t need to worry; I should only accept it with due obedience.”

Ser Oswell shrugged. Surely, he attributed this statement to the one of many Prince’s oddities, to which most people turned a blind eye. Whent opened the door to the throne room before Rhaegar, and the Prince walked in. The huge hall was empty, except for Aerys, seated on the Iron Throne, the guards who stood motionless behind him and the two figures waiting at the foot of the throne, who were apparently, Lord Tywin and his daughter.

The even clatter of Rhaegar’s heels bounced off the walls and filled the space. Aerys could have held this meeting elsewhere, but he wanted to emphasize his importance and the insignificance of the others. Now, he sits on the throne, and they, his subjects, loom far below, scattered on the floor, like toys of a child. One can play with them, marry them to each other, tear their arms, legs or head off, and then throw them away as no longer necessary.

Rhaegar took his time, stepping slowly and smoothly. He knew that from the outside he looked quite dignified and graceful, although inside he did not feel like that at all. Well, for Aerys, this was probably enough. Stopping in front of the Iron Throne, Rhaegar bowed low to his father. His gaze slid over the King’s face, Oswell was right: Aerys smiled, smiled straight at his son, but there was no trace of fatherly love in that crooked black smile. The Prince looked away from his father and greeted the Lannisters with a short nod.

“Look, Tywin, here he is, my son,” Aerys croaked, rubbing his hands. “Are you sure that you still want to give your daughter away to this good-for-nothing offspring of mine?”

“This is a great honor to me, Your Grace,” Rhaegar remarked that an unwanted blush flooded the Hand’s face, staining his skin with the colour of anger. “My Prince, I am happy to see you again.”

“As am I, my lord,” Rhaegar assured him. “Lady Cersei, I am also very pleased.”

He took the girl’s hand and barely touched her knuckles with his lips. Cersei Lannister looked at him with a gaze full of genuine admiration, but Rhaegar did not find anything flattering for himself in this. There was nothing in this look, that was not familiar to the Prince; many girls at the court gazed at the young and handsome heir this way. If he manages to keep this enthusiasm in her for another five years, then he will be truly flattered.

“You probably don't remember Lady Cersei,” Aerys interjected.

“Why?” Rhaegar hastened to object, having noticed how hard Lord Tywin had clenched his teeth. “We met at the tourney in Lannisport. Though you were still very small then,” he addressed the girl.

Aerys snorted, but Lord Tywin's face softened.

“But now she’s grown up,” Aerys chuckled. “Big girl. Have you ever been told that you look like your mother? Joanna was also beautiful at your age, I even envy you, Rhaegar.”

“I ...” Lady Cersei looked lost. The King apparently scared her. She glanced at her father for support, but Lord Tywin only grew more coloured. His face seemed swollen and was about to burst. Rhaegar froze, not knowing what to say or do.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Prince said finally. “I think I am lucky indeed. Lady Cersei is very beautiful.”

Cersei smiled and looked down, and Tywin, although he continued to grit his teeth, seemed to overcome a fit of anger. Rhaegar wanted to exhale loudly, but he did not dare.

“Since no one has changed their minds,” Aerys grinned. “We will soon announce your engagement in the presence of the entire court. You are dismissed!” He barked and then, it seemed, forgot about their existence.

Rhaegar, having made a sign to Tywin, left first. The Hand of the King, walking with a heavy step, followed him. When the doors of the throne room closed behind them, a sigh of relief burst through the Prince’s lips. Oswell, who remained outside, smiled broadly. If it weren’t for the Lannisters’ presence, he would probably have dared to make some sort of a joke, but now he preferred to remain silent.

“Lady Cersei, won’t you agree to take a walk with me in the garden, will you?” The Prince suggested gallantly.

The girl broke into a smile, it seemed she was ready to jump out of her skin with joy.

“Ser Oswell, escort Lady Cersei, please” said Rhaegar. “I will have just a brief talk with your father and catch up with you then.”

“Was your journey quite bearable?” The Prince asked when Lady Cersei left with Oswell.

“The long trips have never gave me much pleasure,” Lord Tywin said. “In this light, our journey can be considered quite tolerable. I am grateful to you, Your Highness,” Lannister said in a much more serious tone.

“For what?” Rhaegar inquired.

“I think you understand this yourself,” Tywin's dark green eyes peered into his own indigo ones. It took Rhaegar a certain effort to withstand this look, but he did not give up.

“Then you must accept my apologies, my lord,” the Prince answered.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Lord Tywin shook his head. “You act wisely.”

“Alas,” Rhaegar sighed. “I am doing everything in my power.”

“You are doing everything right, my prince,” said Lord Tywin, in a low voice. “It seems, I have already told you this before. Hopefully in time you can do much more. And now let me take my leave, I have not been in the capital for far too long, and now I have to deal with the business of the realm.”

Dismissing Lord Tywin with a nod of his head, Rhaegar moved slowly towards the garden. If he understood his meaning right, now the old lion has also offered him to put Aerys out of the way and take the throne. Surprisingly, a similar proposal was made by Lord Tywin and Arthur Dane with a difference of only a couple of weeks. Could the same person probably be standing behind this? If Lord Tywin may have had a specific personal goal in this case, then Arthur, the Prince was sure of it, thought exclusively about the common good.

How can these people be so sure of him when he was completely unsure of himself?

Going out into the courtyard, Rhaegar immediately noticed Lady Cersei. She was waiting for him, chatting amiably about something with ser Oswell, and not noticing the Prince at all. Rhaegar took advantage of this moment to examine her better. In the throne room, he told the truth: Cersei was beautiful. Her young flowering beauty delighted the eye in the same way that Arbor Gold delighted the tongue. However, the Prince’s heart remained untouched, he loved beauty, but of another type, the one so rare that it was almost impossible to find it in King’s Landing. It always seemed to Rhaegar that he would fall in love with a girl who resembled a blazing sunset or a light morning breeze, while Cersei was only a wonderful decoration, albeit made by a certainly skilled craftsman. Rhaegar only consoled himself with the hope that his opinion about his bride would change over the time.

“My lady,” he stepped forward.

“My prince!” That ecstatic smile again. “You scared me. I didn’t notice you.”

“Forgive me,” said Rhaegar. “Scaring you was not at all my intention. I can assure you that while ser Oswell is close, nothing can be a threat to you. Shall we go?” He offered Cersei his arm, and the girl gladly accepted it. Oswell followed them at a respectful distance.

The first few minutes they were silent, Rhaegar tried to come up with a topic for conversation, and Cersei looked around, marveling at the royal gardens. The Prince, as a withdrawn person, was always bothered by such conversations, that had no value in them, but in this case, as in many others, he remained faithful to his duty and carried out what was required of him.

“How do you like King’s Landing?” Rhaegar asked, ashamed that he had never truly succeeded in the science of small talk.

“Oh,” Lady Cersei's eyes lit up, as if she had not considered his question silly or trivial at all. “I have hardly seen the city yet, but I really want to visit the most interesting places, and I am sure that I will like it here!”

“Yes,” Rhaegar nodded absentmindedly. “I think so too.”

The poor thing clearly did not yet fully imagine what the capital city was really like. King’s Landing was full of rich and poor, locals and newcomers, it was cut in pieces by wide streets, small streets and dark alleys, its houses stood literally on top of each other, it was a city in which the sweet scent of flowering groves and gardens mingled with the stink of the Flea Bottom. Rhaegar did not like this city, he was strangled by all its crowds of people and trampled by its houses, but his place was here, and he accepted it as humbly as everything else.

“Can the capital not be fascinating?” Asked Lady Cersei dreamily.

“Of course,” Rhaegar agreed with restraint. “This city is rather ... attractive. But I prefer nature: a forest full of secrets, a field that stretches for miles around, lofty mountains,” he did not notice how delight filled his voice. “It all existed before us, and will continue to live when we are gone.”

“I also love nature,” Lady Cersei interposed, and, only hearing her speak, Rhaegar remembered about her presence. “But I would not want to think about the time when we die, because it is better to enjoy the moment while we are still young and full of strength,” she looked at Rhaegar and her eyes sparkled cunningly. And even though everyone called her a lioness, now she looked more like a sly fox.

The Prince pretended not to notice anything, he nodded, as if confirming her thought with this gesture. She did not notice his inspiration at all, she agreed with him only in order to please him, but Rhaegar did not dare to blame her for this. Which girl in her place would behave differently?

He should spend more time with her in order to get to know her better. He should try not to hide behind the walls of the library and let her know more of himself. Probably, they still have something in common, and then it will become easier for him to spend time with her, and vice versa. To be in constant need of pretending the one you are really not, in order to impress the boring prince, is extremely depressing for sure. But it will be later, now he was tired of the morning performance, of a meeting with his father and of Lady Cersei.

“You must be tired,” Rhaegar suggested. “I am rightfully ashamed to keep you.”

“No, no,” Lady Cersei objected, clutching his hand tightly. “I'm not tired at all.”

“Let me show you to your rooms,” the Prince smiled languidly.

Lady Cersei tried weakly to object, but Rhaegar had already turned around and was leading her towards the Maidenvault, where her chambers were located.


	5. Rhaella I

Gray morning light sneaked into the room through a narrow slit in the dense curtain fabric, leaving a slender path on the veiny floor. The Queen woke up, but still lay in bed, slowly looking around her chamber. Her head was heavy, as if the skull was filled with water, that splashed and beat against its walls, her body ached and did not obey her. Rhaella did not want to make a single extra movement, but she knew that she should soon rise and get down to her duties. Sometimes it seemed to her that it would be better if she was born a rootless maid or a kitchen-wench than the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

That night, she again had that nightmare, as it happened every time after her husband’s visits. These terrible dreams that had haunted her for several years, although they differed slightly, were desperately similar to each other. In these dreams, she was constantly beaten, kicked and humiliated in all possible ways. Sometimes it was ruthless soldiers, sometimes a pack of dogs, but the King was always watching this from his throne and laughed with his child laughter. Rhaella called for help, but no one held out a hand for her, and she woke up from her own desperate screaming.

She and Aerys never had any kind of gentle feelings for each other, but in the early years of their marriage their relationship could have been called tolerable. Her husband tried to be kind to Rhaella, and mourned with her the miscarriages and the babes who died in infancy. However, over time, he began to behave more and more like a beast, and his nightly visits turned into a never-ending torture for Rhaella. When her baby Aegon died being only one year old, Aerys angrily declared that the Gods did not allow the bastards to sit the throne. The accusation of infidelity for Rhaella, who had always fulfilled her duty obediently, was almost worse than any violence.

Rhaella heard a faint knock, and then the door fully opened, allowing septa Molissa and septa Venia to enter the room. The Queen called them her guards to herself. The septas were appointed by Aerys a few years ago in order to secure her fidelity. Over the years, they had never managed to catch Rhaella with anything, but they still remained her eternal companions. The Queen was allowed to leave Maegor’s Holdfast only accompanied by one of her septas.

Septa Venia opened the curtains, and septa Molissa went to the Queen's bed and said quietly:

“Get up, Your Grace, it is a big day today.”

Rhaella nodded and began to rise. Servant-girls rushed into the room, one of them served breakfast for the Queen, the second was preparing a bath. All this was supervised by septas. Rhaella has long ceased to be surprised that a tradeswoman at a fair had more rights in this kingdom than the rightful queen.

Today was indeed an important day; today the wedding of her son to Cersei Lannister was to take place. The King, who had not ventured to leave the walls of the Red Keed since returning from captivity in Duskendale, did not make an exception for such a significant event. Rhaella, however, was allowed, but only accompanied by her ever present “guards”.

When Rhaella, having had her breakfast, plunged into a hot bath, the septas left her, relocating to the boudoir, which adjoined the Queen's chambers. It was impossible to enter the bedchamber, bypassing the boudoir, so her alleged lover could climb only through the window. Thinking of this, Rhaella grinned bitterly. After so many years of living with Ayeris, she would prefer not to know men at all.

Now, in the daylight, she could well see the traces of Aerys’ visit from yesterday: bruises, scratches, tooth marks. Rhaella closed her eyes and still felt pain throughout her body. She still imagined the putrid smell of her husband's breath, and sometimes she involuntarily shuddered with fear, fearing Aerys quietly entering her room again. She knew very well that both the septas, sleeping only a room away, and the kingsguards, standing at the door, heard her screams, but none of them ever tried to help her. The only thing she could count on were the apologetic glances that some knights of the Kingsguard sometimes gave her. She only nodded her understanding: there was nothing they could do.

Rhaella did not even notice that the water in the tub had cooled down. Reluctantly, the Queen got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a towel. The room was again filled with the fussing maids, they anointed the Queen's body with fresh oils, but the red and blue marks still bloomed on Rhaella 's pale skin, like an unknown disease. A disease called Aerys.

Again, she will have to wear a high-necked dress so that no one can notice anything. Rhaella had already forgotten that there were other, much lovelier, outfits, but they had long been inappropriate for her. Viserys was still too young to have the notion of such things, and the terrible marks on his mother's body would frighten him. Her eldest son, having seen this, would have been deeply saddened, and she did not want to upset Rhaegar, who already had enough to worry about. He still was not able to do anything about it, and this would have caused him only more pain.

An ugly bite adorned her cheek. Rhaella had looked at it for a long time in a shallow mirror, while a maid combed her long silver hair, once soft and supple, over the years it grew into resembling the thin silver straw.

“Do something about it,” she said to the maid, touching the bite with her small, delicate fingers.

“Of course, my queen,” the girl nodded hastily.

Rhaella knew, that her maids were bored with her. The girls always fell silent, when she was around, and spoke only in order to answer her requests or ask if she was in need of something, but sometimes she heard them twittering cheerfully between themselves, ceasing any conversation immediately when she appeared. She would have liked to get on well with them, as was the case with the other noble ladies, but Rhaella simply could not find enough willingness and resources in herself.

Vilma, the senior among the maids, worked magic with the Queen's cheek. She gently applied a layer of fragrant powder brought from distant Tirosh, and then added a small amount of rouge.

“Thank you,” Rhaella smiled faintly. If one squinted, then she looked almost young, almost blooming. It is a pity she will never be able to remove the sadness from her eyes, but her lips will smile today. For the sake of her son, the Queen was ready for much more.

“Mum!” The door burst open, and Viserys flew into the room like a small hurricane, but then froze at once, as soon as his nanny stepped after him. She was a middle-aged woman with a square face and evil eyes. She always dressed in black and came from the family of some impoverished lord.

“Your Highness,” she said menacingly, “is it proper for a prince to behave this way?”

The shamed Viserys stood next to his mother and looked down guiltily.

“I suppose a child can be forgiven for such a small prank, lady Felicia,” the Queen said. “Come here, darling, give your mother a hug.”

The prince smiled happily and immediately fell into his mother’s embrace. She held him tightly to her and stroked his slightly tousled hair.

“Forgive me, my Queen,” lady Felicia objected, “but the Prince has a certain set of rules, established by the King himself, which the child must strictly abide. You do not want to anger His Grace, do you?”

“No, I don't,” Rhaella sighed hopelessly. What is the use of being a queen if septas and nannies command you around? “Come on, sweetie, we have to go.”

She rose from her seat and took Viserys’ hand. They went down to the courtyard, where the servants were waiting for them. A strong and piercing wind was blowing, and heavy leaden clouds hung over the city, promising to burst with rain quite soon. Winters in the south could not boast with much snow, although it did fall sometimes, but more often it was replaced by cold winds and lingering downpours that turned the streets of the city into affluent rivers.

The Queen and the Prince sat in a palanquin, they were accompanied by lady Felicia and septa Venia, septa Molissa, for whom there was no place left, rode with the other ladies. Rhaella wanted to talk to her son, but she did not wish to do this in front of strangers. Instead, the Queen merely watched Viserys carefully peer out into the street from behind the curtains that hid them from the people of King's Landing.

Her dearest, kindest boy, but Aerys also intended to rob her of him as well. Being always dissatisfied with his eldest son, the King announced to her that it was her spinelessness and weakness of will that made Rhaegar so characterless, and he would not allow the same to happen to Viserys. The King ordered that a suitable teacher is to be found for the younger Prince, and soon lady Felicia appeared in the Red Keep. From that day on, the Queen was only allowed to see and speak with her son on seldom occasions. Rhaegar, having learned about this, was terribly angry, but Rhaella did not allow him to speak to his father, she did not want to lose both her boys.

Viserys diverted his attention from contemplating what was happening on the streets, and looked at his mother.

“There are so many people, mother!” He said in owe.

“Yes,” smiled Rhaella. Many of the capital inhabitants flocked now to the Great Sept of Baelor in order to have a glimpse at the wedding of the Crown Prince to the Lannister girl. King’s Landing had not seen events of such magnitude and such importance for a long time, so everyone was in a hurry to look at this miracle with their own eyes.

“And they all want to see Rhaegar?” Viserys asked in surprise.

“Of course, son,” Rhaella said. “They all love your brother very much.”

“Will they also love me too?” Viserys inquired, he looked saddened by the fact that people’s love went to someone else, even his own brother.

“It is impossible not to love you, Viserys,” the Queen patted the boy on the head, for which she earned a scathing look from lady Felicia.

None of them were able to say anything else because the palanquin came to a halt. Ser Harlan Grandison, who rode next to them on a fine horse, gallantly offered his hand to the Queen in order to help her out. On both sides they were immediately surrounded by goldcloaks, and, led by Sir Harlan, their small company followed through the crowd and into the sept. Rhaella saw people pushing each other and craning their necks to get the better look of the Queen and the little Prince. It scared her. Although it seemed that they all came with good intentions, some of them had frightening eyes, which made Rhaella squeeze Viserys' hand tightly.

The little Prince himself was not at all terrified by the crowd; on the contrary, he looked cheerful and even nodded his hello to some people with a huge smile. This experience was utterly new for the boy; he spent most of his short life locked inside the Red Keep, leaving it on very rare occasions. He was surrounded by familiar people whom he had known since birth, and being now in the center of attention aroused previously unknown emotions in him. Looking at her youngest son, Rhaella was even envious of how he carried himself.

A sudden strong gust of wind blew, and a silken scarf was torn from the Queen’s head, she felt something cold and wet touch her cheek. It seemed like it was starting to rain, but instead of a raindrop, a snowflake fell in Rhaella’s open palm. The Queen flinched. _Bad omen_ , she thought. _May the Seven have mercy on us, and this will prove to be just a stupid prejudice of an old woman._

When they had finally made it to the sept, and were separated from the crowd by heavy wooden doors, the Queen breathed a sigh of relief. Her eyes immediately found Rhaegar, he stood slightly apart from the guests and discussed something with the High Septon. The bride and her father had not arrived yet.

As always, the Crown Prince looked regal, as his status required of him. He wore a wedding cloak of the House Targaryen, made of black velvet with a grand three-headed dragon made of blood-red rubies. The collar of the cloak was adorned with the fur of a shadowcat. According to a legend, the beast was killed in the Mountains of the Moon by one of the royal knights in honor of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator when he traveled through the Seven Kingdoms after his accession to the throne. The first to put this cloak on the shoulders of his new wife was the son of Jaehaerys ‒ Prince Baelon. More than two hundred years had passed since then, and other cloaks were made for the royal grooms and brides, but Rhaegar remembered precisely about this one. The Prince ordered to find and renew it, which was worth considerable amount of work for numerous masters. Rhaella thought that in doing so her son wanted to show his connection to the Wise King, still remembered all over Westeros for his good deeds. Her Rhaegar should for sure become the king like Jaehaerys, he should become even better.

Seeing his mother, the Prince nodded his apology to the septon and went up to her. The expression in his eyes seemed lost, and this saddened the Queen.

“I'm glad to see you, dearest mother,” said Rhaegar affectionately. “And you, little brother,” the older prince always had a smile in stock for Viserys, on which he was usually scant.

“You're very handsome,” muttered Viserys. With his head up, he looked at his older brother.

“You cannot hide anything from a child, can you?” Rhaella laughed.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar patted his brother on the head. “What about father?”

“You know him,” Rhaella sighed. “He does not leave the Keep.”

“Yes, I know,” her son's face seemed to get a little sadder, but he pulled himself together immediately. Someone shouted that the bride had arrived, and he hastened to part with his mother. “I have to go,” Rhaegar grabbed her hand and squeezed it, and then left at once.

Cersei Lannister was beautiful that day. She sparkled just like the lion of her house, embroidered in gold on her maiden cloak. Lord Tywin shone with pride and did not even try to hide it. Today he triumphed over everyone. The Hand of the King, and according to many, the real ruler of the Seven Kingdoms now was going to become the grandfather of the future kings and queens. Rhaella still did not understand how Aerys, whose relationship with Tywin had worsened in the recent years, had agreed to this. However, the Queen did not care about the ambitions of her mad husband and the vanity of Lord Tywin, she only wished her son to be happy. If Cersei Lannister was the one to make him thus, the Queen was ready to forget about everything else.

The bride and groom stood in front of the High Septon who offered up the prayers to the gods. Cersei looked enthusiastic, Rhaegar seemed focused. When it was their turn to take their vows, Cersei's voice was clear and loud, although, she was trembling slightly, Rhaegar spoke quietly, as if he did not want anyone except the septon and the bride to hear him. After a sevenfold blessing, the bride and groom exchanged their cloaks, and the cloak of King Jaehaerys fell on the shoulders of lady Cersei, while Rhaegar was clothed in the radiant cloak of the House Lannister.

“With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband,” said Cersei, and her lips parted in anticipation.

“With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife,” Rhaegar repeated after her. The Queen still did not hear his words, but they were known to everyone, and it was not difficult to imagine them uttered by Rhaegar's soft voice.

The Prince leaned towards the bride and imprinted a light kiss on her lips. The kiss broke off far too quickly and the gaze he gave Cersei was almost gentle, but not loving. _They need more time_ , Rhaella thought. _They will be happier with each other than I was with Aerys._ She could not help but feel sympathy for her son and his bride, as well as for all other couples whose union was only a whim of their parents. But at the same time, she was desperately envious of Cersei Lannister, for her son was much better than his father. She wished, she got such a Targaryen for herself, kind and faithful, with deep sense of duty.

“In front of gods and men, I solemnly declare Rhaegar of the House Targaryen and Cersei of the House Lannister to be men and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and be damned the one who will stand between them,” the High Septon proclaimed, lifting the sacred seven-sided crystal above his head. The crystal sparkled in his hands, thus marking the end of the ceremony.

At that moment, Rhaella glanced again at Tywin Lannister. Surely, in all Seven Kingdoms there lived no man happier than him. The Queen only sighed sadly; she would have liked to experience such happiness herself. Viserys slightly stirred next to her, he had watched the ceremony with admiration without uttering a word, but he was all agitated again, and Rhaella was distracted by her son.

“Did you like it, my boy?” The Queen asked.

“Yes,” Viserys exclaimed breathlessly. “Will my wedding also be here?”

“Yes, dear,” Rhaella took his hand and led him to the doors, trailing after the other guests. Ser Harlan and her escort followed her. “It just won’t happen soon.”

“Father said that I would marry Princess Arianne of Dorne,” Viserys said. “Is she beautiful?”

“I don't know, son,” the Queen shook her head. She did not like her husband’s plan, but, as in the case with Rhaegar, her opinion meant a little less than nothing.

“And when will I see her?” The little Prince did not tone down.

“I think when both your fathers agree upon an engagement between you, and Prince Doran allows his daughter to visit King’s Landing,” Rhaella had heard that her husband wanted Arianne to spend enough time in the capital.

All the way back to the Red Keep, Viserys bombarded her with questions, and most of them she did not know how to answer. And when will father agree with Prince Doran? Will he, Viserys, be allowed to go to Dorne? Does Arianne look like lady Cersei? As an answer to that the Queen explained that dornish women are mostly black-haired and dark-eyed, and Arianne, most likely, is no exception. This got Viserys very upset. Of course, the beautiful Cersei impressed him, and now the Prince considered her almost the standard of female beauty. Rhaella scolded him slightly that it was not worth a good man to talk about a girl’s appearance without ever having seen her. To this Viserys again began to ask when he would finally see her, and further around the circle.

Their journey passed under the cheering rumble of the crowd shouting out the names of Prince Rhaegar and his new wife. The mother’s heart could not but rejoice at how the people loved her son. Of course, the comparison between the Crown Prince and his father played a certain part, but Rhaella was sure that her son was able to become one of the best rulers that the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.

Upon arrival to the Keep, lady Felicia took the young Prince to change clothes, even despite his most sincere wish to go to the feast immediately. Rhaella had also freshened herself up a bit and changed her dress, only after that she went to the great hall ‒ an enormous chamber that could accommodate more than a thousand guests. She climbed to a high table, where Cersei and Rhaegar had already taken their places. The King sat to the right of the Prince, and Lord Tywin to the left of the new princess. Her own place was next to Aerys, Rhaella found it unpleasant, but it was impossible to do anything about it. She greeted her husband with a short nod, noting at the same time that Rhaegar gave her a faint smile. Only people close to him were able to notice such light hints of a smile on his ever-solemn face.

Despite being surrounded by people, it seemed to the Queen that she was completely alone at this feast: she had no desire to speak with her husband, her son was engrossed in a conversation with his wife and lord Tywin, and thus unattainable for Rhaella, with ser Gerold Hightower, who stood behind her, she would have been completely afraid to speak in the presence of Aerys. Rhaella was silent and watched the others, soon little Viserys was brought to her, and she devoted her attention to him again. Gods alone knew when she will be able to spend so much time with her younger son again.

A variety of dishes, singers and different magicians from across the sea changed after one another. The guests heard the piercing “The Seasons of My Love”, the funny “Let Me Drink Your Beauty”, the gentle “My Featherbed Is Deep And Soft…”, enjoyed the bizarre tricks performed by the eastern wizards, most of whom entertained the court with fiery performances in order to please the King. Rhaegar danced with Cersei two times, and then appeared in front of his mother.

“Will you do me the honor, mother?” He held out his hand to the Queen.

“With pleasure,” she immediately blossomed and descended from the high table hand in hand with her son.

“You are very beautiful today,” Rhaegar said.

“You are being kind to me, son,” Rhaella shook her head. “I'm an old woman already.”

“Why would I lie to you?” the Prince shrugged.

“How are you, darling?” Rhaella asked, looking into his sad indigo eyes, in which she saw nothing but fatigue.

“The day was hard, to be frank” Rhaegar said honestly. “But with you, mother, I feel as if I am resting.”

“I would really like you to be happy, Rhaegar,” the Queen squeezed his shoulder. “Happy more than me.”

“I'm afraid kings and princes cannot count on this,” he sighed. “But I will try, for your sake.”

The dance was over, and Rhaegar led Rhaella back. The musicians suddenly began to play “The Rains of Castamere,” and the Queen saw Cersei smiling, and the King frowning, while Rhaegar tensed next to her. For a brief moment, she thought that the King would order the musicians to be burned right here at the feast, but he said nothing. Instead, Aerys got up and went up to Lord Tywin and began to whisper something in his ear. The Hand’s face became paler, and then it suddenly burst into deep crimson, as if all the blood in his body poured to his head. Lord Tywin's lips did not move, Aerys smirked slyly and returned to his place extremely pleased with himself.

When he was next to her again, Rhaella sensed the pleasure emanating from the King with her skin. It seemed that the smell of triumph mixed with the stink of an old untended body. The Queen got scared. What made Lord Tywin so angry and astonished? So, it was not in vain that Aerys allowed this marriage, apparently, it was only a part of a Mad King’s plan. They played with the fate of her son, and she was not even able to notice it.

The Queen glanced at Rhaegar, he was talking to Tywin Lannister, and his face looked worried. Rhaella desperately wanted to find out what happened, but she had not enough courage to ask Aerys about this, the Queen did not even dare to get up and go to her son. She no longer touched food or wine and frantically squeezed the edge of the table. Viserys tugged at her hem, demanding attention, but she answered him only absentmindedly.

The musicians had finally finished the “Rains of Castamere”. Putting his hand on Tywin's shoulder, Rhaegar stood up. One of the servants handed him the harp, and the Prince descended into the middle of the hall, the place previously occupied by other singers before him. The guests, already drunk with the good wine, enthusiastically greeted him. Rhaegar said nothing, he only touched the strings with his long thin fingers, and suddenly the whole space was filled with music. No sound was heard except for the melody flowing through the hall. It started from under Rhaegar’s fingers in a thin stream and then poured like a wide, deep river throughout the Great Hall. Soon, a voice joined the melody, surprisingly clear and deep, and all one could do was to allow oneself drown in it completely, listening breathlessly to every word and every note.

Rhaella recognized this song from the first chords. Rhaegar sang about the sad love story of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies, and the Queen felt her eyes fill with tears. This sad story always reminded her of her own forgotten love, which was not destined to happen.

When the Prince finished, the guests broke out again with a thunder of approval, to which Rhaegar bowed low.

“It is not proper for the Crown Prince to bow to his future subjects,” Aerys grumbled when his son returned, and Rhaella secretly wiped away her tears, fearing that her husband would notice them.

Rhaegar did not answer, he gave his father a long look, and then turned away. Rhaella prayed silently to Mother, that she would protect her son from the wrath of the King and will not allow the Prince to do anything reckless. Rhaegar, usually estranged from the world and withdrawn in himself, was easily ignited when the matter touched him personally, his loved ones, or those whom he had sworn to protect. She remembered well how, having heard that the King had taken Viserys from her, Rhaegar raged around her room, almost flashing fire, like a real dragon.

Meanwhile, dances and new performances continued, but the Queen no longer looked at them. Her gaze was detached and thoughtful. Absentmindedly, she said goodbye to Viserys, who, contrary to his wishes, was led away to sleep by lady Felicia without waiting for the pie. The pie arrived after a few more songs and small sketches dedicated to Aegon the Conqueror. The Targaryen who conquered Westeros was so popular, as if apart from him there was no a single king worthy of mentioning. Finally, the treat had been eaten, the wine had been drunk, and the first chords of the song “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown” were heard: the time for bedding had come.

“The lioness will have a good scratch of the dragon today!” a drunken voice shouted.

“If only the dragon hadn’t lost its flame!”

“I heard that dragons can change from a boy into a girl!”

Cersei blushed, but her expression was more than ever pleased. Rhaegar was completely unperturbed, so Rhaella could not understand what he was thinking. Loud cheering filled the hall, the guests laughed and hooted, and soon Rhaegar and Cersei disappeared from the hall, carried away by a merry crowd of drunken men and women.

As soon as the sounds of voices subsided, Tywin Lannister rose from his seat and immediately retired, as if he could not wait for the end of the festivities. Rhaella also got up, after all her worries fatal fatigue suddenly fell upon her. It was as if a tight headband was put upon her head; she wanted to get to her chambers as soon as possible, make her hair loose and remove her heavy dress. In the corner of the hall, septa Venia and septa Molissa were waiting for her.

When she came down from the high table, Rhaella felt someone grabbing her by the forearm. Long nails dug into her flesh, and an unpleasant sour smell hit her nose, the Queen barely restrained herself from wincing. _Not now_ , she pleaded. _Just not right now, please_. With all her dignity, she turned to look into the dark eyes of the King.

“Good night, my queen,” Aerys said with mock courtesy. His mouth twisted ugly, Rhaella was afraid that he could feel her trembling.

The King said nothing more, he removed his hand from her and laughed, filling the hall with his laughter. Not remembering herself with relief, Rhaella hastened downstairs and, accompanied by the septas, left the room, the incessant, mad laughter ringing in her ears.


	6. Arthur II

When the wedding feast was finally over, Artur, together with his brother in arms Barristan Selmy, had to stand guard at the door to the newlyweds’ chambers for the remains of the night. The doors in the Red Keep were quite thick, but full of tiny cracks and holes that allowed, to Artur's misfortune and to Varis' joy, to get a quite solid idea of what was going on inside. Kings had no secrets from their servants, even if they wanted to, and some rulers, such as Aerys, learned to perceive those who served them as nothing more than furniture, parts of the interior that could, by a wave of a hand, come to life and execute orders. However, Prince Rhaegar had never possessed such a convenient quality, he always saw a person even in the lowest-ranking kitchen boy, so Arthur was fully aware that tomorrow he would feel extremely awkward in Prince’s presence. Such moments had already occurred between them, but later the awkwardness always passed, so the Prince and his knight got used to it and tried not to touch sensitive topics in their conversations.

Arthur looked at ser Barristan, but the older knight remained calm. Dayne wanted to talk with his brother in arms about their common unenviable fate. The Sword of the Morning had his share of glory, victories both in tourneys and on the battlefield, but now he was constantly forced to witness what was not intended for anyone's eyes and ears. Among the knights of the realm it was an honour to be a part of the Kingsguard, but Arthur did not see much honour in his service. Now he was only a little reassured that what was happening behind this door, even though it was an act of duty rather than love, was committed by mutual consent. Queen Rhaella's screams, which he often had to hear, when the King visited her at night, still rang in his ears, awakening anger and contempt for himself and for the Gods who bless such oaths as his own.

Sudden creak of the door put an end to Artur's unhappy thoughts, Dayne was immediately alert and clutched at his sword. However, it was only Rhaegar Targaryen who slipped quietly into the corridor. He stopped between two confused guards and carefully closed the door of his wife’s bedchamber, not making a sound.

“Good night,” said Rhaegar. Arthur looked at the Prince in surprise, Dayne felt both funny and awkward at the same moment, although he tried to maintain a serious expression.

“May I escort you to your chambers, my prince?” Arthur asked, puzzled.

“Yes, please,” Rhaegar nodded, somewhat absent-mindedly, now he looked like a cat, caught while stealing meat from the kitchen. Artur bowed his head knowingly, obeying his Prince, but ser Barristan was still perplexed. Dayne was sure that afterwards Selmy would write it all off to the Prince’s well-known strangeness. It usually explained all Rhaegar’s actions, which did not correspond to the common human logic.

The Prince once again wished ser Barristan a good night and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, Arthur followed suit. They tried to step quietly so as not to attract anyone's attention, although the castle had already plunged into a sound sleep. Only in the Great Hall the fire of the festivities was slowly dying down among the most persistent guests.

“Pray, was it so lousy?” Artur could not stand it and took advantage of his position as a friend who had the right to ask such questions.

“No,” the prince answered. “Not at all. Please, do not think anything like that. I just could not sleep for a long time, I woke up and lay, not closing my eyes and looking at the ceiling. I felt so strange and silly, I looked at her, she was so peaceful in her sleep, her wet curls stuck to her face. My heart, it continued to beat just as steadily. I held out my hand, but I didn’t even want to touch her or remove that curls from her forehead. I felt that I had to do this, that she was my wife, but I did not want to. And suddenly I felt so stuffy, my chest was squeezed, as if a heavy stone had been laid on me. I had to leave; I could not do otherwise. If I stayed there, I would suffocate.”

“I understand,” of course, Arthur did not understand anything. More precisely, he knew that he did not understand and would never understand, and Rhaegar also knew this. However, Arthur did not condemn the Prince, accepting all his so-called oddities and did not judge them. He did not question Rhaegar's motives, did not argue and did not look with disapproval, Arthur was always ready to support the Prince in everything, and Rhaegar was grateful to him for this.

Thinking about his friendship with the Prince, Dayne was amazed at how they even got so close. Completely different in everything from hair color to the life goals, they got on with one another surprisingly easy. Perhaps the point was that Artur's earthliness complemented Rhaegar's daydreaming, Dayne did not allow the Prince to fly too far away into the world of magic and dreams, holding him closer to the ground, and Rhaegar did not allow Artur to turn into a cynical warrior, showing that the world is still full of bright colours.

“Are you tired, Arthur?” The Prince asked when they were at the door to his chamber.

“Like Seven hells,” Dayne admitted. “But I still have to hang around here until the morning, so that no one makes an attempt on your royal life.”

“Then what do you think about a more interesting pastime?” Rhaegar became a little more cheerful. “However, if you are really tired, I will let you get some sleep and go alone.”

“You know very well that you cannot go alone,” Arthur shook his head. In truth, he would have gladly taken advantage of such a tempting offer and went to bed, but his duty was to remain by the Prince. “I will not let you go alone. Give me some time, I’ll take off my armor and change clothes. And, look at you, you should change as well, otherwise people will mistake you for some exotic beast.”

“Good,” Rhaegar agreed. “Meet me at our usual place.”

Arthur was glad to get rid of the heavy armor and put on the usual unremarkable outfit of dark wool, the most uncomfortable part of which was a warm winter cloak with a large hood. Dayne was not as noticeable as Prince Rhaegar with his instantly recognizable valyrian features, but still he had to be careful not to draw too much attention. If the King ever finds out about their secret outings, Arthur is likely to be burned alive at the spot and even Rhaegar will not be able to protect him.

Dayne's soft leather boots allowed him to step silently, and he had arrived at the place almost without incidents. He only scared a drunken guest while crossing one of the castle courtyards. That fellow was so drunk that he did not recognize the kingsguard, and still continued to speak to him even when Arthur had been long gone already. None of the people he came across were interested in Dayne, almost all were just as drunk, and the gold cloaks, who stood guard, were almost falling with fatigue.

When Arthur arrived, Rhaegar was already waiting for him. He was dressed in all black and almost merged with the surrounding darkness. Only his pale face and silver hair made his head look like the full moon that had escaped from behind the clouds. A small lantern swayed in his hand as a firefly. They exchanged glances, but none of them uttered a word, Rhaegar threw a hood over his head, and then, taking a few steps and turning into a dark alcove, he pushed a wall with his shoulder. The wall succumbed, revealing a small door which Rhaegar and Arthur could enter, only bending almost two times.

The Prince raised the lantern, and they found themselves in a narrow stone passage, which was soon replaced by a staircase leading down. It smelled of damp and mold, moisture protruding from the walls like cold sweat. The stone under their feet crumbled due to constant humidity, so they had to tread carefully and with no rush at all.

“Do you remember how we found this place?” Arthur asked, trying to keep up with the Prince. His voice sounded hollow among these walls, bouncing off the stone, with echo flying over their heads.

“Yes,” said Rhaegar. “It seems, at the time I was so excited to investigate it that I was ready to get here immediately, even without a lamp.”

“And I tried to dissuade you from it,” Arthur grinned.

“But in the end, I got here anyway,” Dayne hoped the Prince was smiling now. “And you were next to me.”

“Of course, I was,” Arthur agreed. “But first, I convinced you to at least take lantern and change clothes.”

“And then I slipped on a wet stone and fell,” continued Rhaegar.

“I almost died of fear then,” Dayne admitted. “That would be great fun for me if you managed to get yourself killed. With all your tricks, I still feel that the Stranger himself is on my heels.”

The Prince came to a sudden halt. He climbed a few steps back and stood next to Arthur, looking him straight in the eye. Rhaegar raised the lantern, and its light was reflected in the Prince's indigo eyes, these eyes, so dark and sad, now seemed to reflect the whole world, and it seemed to Arthur that he saw himself in them, but, no matter how hard one looked, it was impossible to see what was hidden in their depths.

Dayne thought that his words had offended Rhaegar somehow and was ready to apologize, but the Prince spoke first:

“I'm sorry,” he said, putting his hand on the knight's shoulder.

“For what?” Arthur asked surprised.

“For you having to risk your life for me,” said Rhaegar seriously. “Gods know I am not worthy of this, but I want you to be sure that I am grateful.”

“What are you talking about?” Artur dismissed. “It's my duty.”

“I hope this is more than a duty,” Rhaegar's eyes flashed. “In any case, not the same duty you have to my father.”

Without giving Artur a chance to answer, he turned around and walked on.

For some time, they were accompanied only by the noise of their own footsteps, a hollow echo turned it into a frightening chorus of sounds. If someone ever wanted to follow them, his tread would easily be lost in the cacophony. Thinking about this, Dayne turned around, but quite expectedly he saw only the darkness absorbeding everything that remained behind him, like some kind of a foreign monster. _Well_ , Artur grumbled to himself, _it seems I also start to believe in all sorts of rubbish too. No, it’s better, perhaps, to be afraid of ordinary people, and not of monsters._

Silence weighed on Dayne, allowing unpleasant thoughts to take possession of him, and he looked at Rhaegar, who, apparently, enjoyed such outings as this one.

“Do you know what your father told Tywin?” Arthur asked, wanting to resume the conversation.

“Did you see that too?” Rhaegar said instead of an answer.

“A good half of the guests, who had not yet lain beneath the tables, saw this,” Arthur grinned. “Do you think they started to play the Rains of Castamere without any purpose? It was supposed to be the triumph of the old lion.”

“But my father could not allow this,” the Prince said with a sigh. “No, I do not know what the King said to his Hand. Lord Tywin did not answer my questions.”

Rhaegar’s voice vibrated with fatigue. Artur could not even imagine how hard it was for the Prince to live with such a father, who was able to play the tricks like that at any moment. In the best case he would just disgrace the crown, and in the worst, he would destroy the country. Dayne recalled his own family, his older brother Admar, the younger sisters Ashara and Allyria. He hardly remembered his mother, only vague memories of a woman with long blonde hair remained. As a child, Arthur was often sick, and his mother sat at his bed and read him fairy tales. And then it was she who got sick and never made it out of bed. Father outlived her only for a short while. A few years later he died somewhere in the Free Cities, by then the children had not seen him for quite some time.

Admar was the one to take care of his younger siblings, though he was barely thirteen at the time. Arthur was an orphan, but he knew that he had his brother and sisters who would always stand by him whatever happened. Even now, when Arthur was the member of the Kingsguard, nothing changed, and his family did not just disappear from his life. But whom did Rhaegar Targaryen have? A mother in need of protection, who was hiding all her troubles from her son, rightly fearing for his life, a crazy father, who saw a traitor in every person and a little brother with whom the Prince almost had no opportunity to communicate. Now the wife was added to this list, but, looking at Cersei, Arthur doubted that she would become the person on whom Rhaegar could safely rely. The Prince was alone, everyone expected something of him, but no one tried to support him, to help the young man not to get entangled in the chaos, which the Seven Kingdoms gradually slipped into.

Arthur glanced once again at the Prince, who walked ahead. Nobody would ever be able to understand what kind of load this person carried on his shoulders, even Dayne himself, but, nevertheless, Arthur swore that he would always remain for Rhaegar the brother the Prince never had.

The last step of the never-ending stone stairs was a little higher than the rest. Arthur saw how Rhaegar easily jumped to a flat floor in front of him, lending elegantly, but Dayne remembered the trap hidden in the darkness only when his foot began to fall into the void. Arthur cursed, struggling to maintain his balance. Rhaegar looked at his friend calmly, but his eyes smirked.

“When will you finally stick it into your memory?” The Prince asked.

“I’m still the one who won more tourneys than you,” Dayne retorted.

“You should come up with the new line,” Rhaegar patted him on the shoulder, “otherwise I will soon stop accepting this one. Come on, I’m eager to get out of here.”

Arthur burst out laughing and began to praise himself out loud, however, he immediately fell silent when the stone corridor spat them straight out into the city garden, and they found themselves in a gazebo lost among the trees. Rhaegar came to a standstill and took a deep breath. Here, in the garden, the air was fresh, it smelled of earth and rotten leaves, but these smells seemed pleasant, there was something appeasing in them.

The Prince just stood there for a while, listening to the soundlessness and enjoying the fresh air, only after several moments of silence they went on. Black tree trunks encircled them and pulled towards them naked, leafless branches trembling in the wind. In summer, this garden was crowded from dusk to dawn. The pavements and stone walls of the capital were hot under the burning sun, and the townsfolk sought rest in the coolness provided by the saving shade of foliage, but now everything here was empty and abandoned. The forlorn gardens easily kept the secret of the Prince and his faithful friend.

As a contrast to the solitude of the garden, the city streets were crowded, even despite the late hour. Merry songs were heard from taverns, men and women danced almost everywhere. Some drunkard shouted “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown” right in Arthur's ear, but Rhaegar seemed not to notice all this. He walked on, easily maneuvering between the people, as if he did not see what was happening around.

Finally, they turned into a building well known to them both, however, they went inside not from the main entrance, but rather from the back one, which was hiding in a narrow dark courtyard: Rhaegar did not want to be seen. The Prince and Arthur found themselves in a small cramped closet, steeped in total darkness. Rhaegar raised the lantern, looking around. There was a long wooden bench against the wall, a girl of six years old sat on it and dangled her feet. Having noticed the new arrivals, she immediately smiled cheerfully.

“Hello, Willa,” Rhaegar said softly, he pulled some candy from his pocket and handed it to the girl. She grabbed it greedily. “Where is your father?”

“He works,” the girl shrugged. “Today is the Prince’s wedding. This is a strange thing, it is the Prince who got married, and we sold as much ale as if everyone who had come here also had their weddings today. Does the Prince drink ale?”

“Of course,” Rhaegar assured her. “He is a human, after all.”

“I don't know,” Willa shook her head in disbelief. “I never saw him.”

Arthur wanted to laugh but did not have the time. The door to the closet opened, and a wave of bright light poured inside, coming from a large hall that flickered in the doorframe. It was not easy to absorb such an amount of light after the full darkness and Dayne closed his eyes for a moment. A silhouette of a burly bearded man appeared on the threshold, and the door slammed shut. Fireflies were messing around in front of Arthur's eyes, and he had to blink frantically in order to restore his normal sight again.

“Oh, I do hope, Willa, today we will earn enough money so that we can buy candles not only for guests, but also for ourselves,” the man’s speech was constantly interspersed with heavy pants: Arthur knew that he had long been short of breath.

“You will have candles,” Dayne spoke, indicating his presence.

“My lord!” The man startled and looked at them, finally catching the tiny light from the lantern. “Good night to you! Your...”

“And good night to you, Tycho,” Rhaegar interrupted before it was to late. Tycho Muller had kept the Crown Prince’s secret for several years, but always forgot about it in a fit of worship for Rhaegar.

“I did not expect you at all today,” Tycho shook his head, but becoming scared, that he could have offended the Prince with his words, he added hastily: “But we are always glad to see you.”

“I think I can earn you some candles today,” Rhaegar left the previous statement unanswered. “Kindly bring me my harp.”

Tycho started to fuss around, and Willa clapped her hands joyfully.

“Will you sing?” She asked.

“Yes, Willa,” Rhaegar took the instrument from Tycho’s hands, threw a hood over his head and headed to the hall.

“Come on,” Arthur held out his hand to Willa, and she readily put her small hand in his huge calloused palm.

Willa, although she was still a little girl, looked at Rhaegar, with undisguised delight, like the other, more grown up and noble ladies. Arthur, having received his ale, sat back in an uncomfortable wooden chair, and looked around. He remembered the day when he and the Prince first appeared in this tavern very well. Rhaegar had always loved to sing to the common folk. Having hidden his face under the hood, he was able to perform in the crowded city streets and squares, in shady gardens. Though he had never appeared in the wealthy areas, partly because he was afraid to be recognized and partly due to his dislike for the society there. Loads of people usually turned up attracted by his performance, and the Prince enthusiastically counted the coins that the bright-eyed citizens threw at him. Soon, in the poor parts of the city, he became widely known as the Bard-in-the-Hood or the Strange Bard.

Singing to ordinary people, Rhaegar chose the ballads that he had composed himself, and only a few of them later delighted the ears of lords and ladies from the court. When Arthur asked the Prince why he was so selective, Rhaegar only shrugged his shoulders and mentioned that the common folk, due to their proximity to natural simplicity, were often able to feel much more than representatives of their own circle, whose only interest was money and power. Having given this statement a considerable thought, Dayne decided that Rhaegar would indeed become a good king, if only he would descend from heaven back to the solid ground.

Once, when they were counting the money earned by the Prince, Rhaegar heard a man dreaming aloud that the Bard-in-the-Hood would sing in his tavern and save him from ruin. Rhaegar gave him all that he had earned that day and promised the man to make his dream come true. This miserable owner was Tycho Muller, he was much thinner and dirtier at the time, his beard stuck out in shreds, and Willa was still to make her first steps. The Prince kept his promise and performed in the Tycho’s tavern, since then he often visited the place, and later finally chose it as a permanent place for his performances, and even hid one of his harps there.

The identity of Rhaegar remained a secret for a long time, and only after a while had he and Arthur decided that it would be safe to trust Tycho. Dayne still could not help smiling, remembering the face of the poor tavern’s owner. He seemed to be struggling hard not to faint, but in all Seven Kingdoms from now on existed no man more loyal to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen than Tycho Muller. The face of the Bard-in-the-Hood was seen only by Tycho and his daughter, the first was as dumb as a fish, and the second did not understand who was in front of her: the girl had no idea what the valyrian features of the ruling dynasty looked like.

Arthur tried to start a conversation with Willa, but she waved him away, not wanting to change the silver voice of the Bard-in-the-Hood to Arthur's chatter. Dayne noticed a couple of gold cloaks in the corner, relaxing after the hard day. Previously, they had always made him nervous and he used to watch them closely. However, for all the time, Rhaegar had never been recognized, which led Dayne to believe that people who could have heard the Prince at court either did not possess an ear for music or simply could not believe that a member of the royal family, and even less so the Crown Prince, could have ever been found in such a place.

Rhaegar, as usual, did not want to go home, but it was almost dawn already, and Arthur signaled to the Prince that it was time for them to leave, otherwise their inexplicable absence would be noticed in the Keep. Rhaegar did not seem to want to end the performance, but he behaved prudently. When they already said goodbye to the owner and his daughter, Willa grabbed the Prince's leg, not wishing to let him go.

“I'll be back,” he promised. “I always come back, right?”

Willa nodded and finally released Rhaegar's leg and went to her father.

“We are very grateful to you,” said Tycho Muller. The admiration in his eyes was no less than that of his daughter.

“Not worth it,” the Prince shook his head. “You were surprised that I came here today, and your observation made me think about it. I am here with you, because this way I feel free. Where else can a child freely grab my leg? You live a real life and you are sincere with me. I appreciate it. And now we really have to go, farewell.”

Tycho gazed at Rhaegar, not blinking, obviously he had not expected the explanation he received.

“Let me give you an advice,” Dayne whispered to the tavern owner, “when you go back to the hall, first make your face simpler.”

He nodded briefly to the surprised Tycho, winked at Willa cheerfully, and with that went out into the street.

The way back seemed longer to Arthur, although they walked fast and hardly spoke. Rhaegar was supposedly in an entirely different place, he was thinking about something, and his face was again covered with the distinctive expression of sadness and longing for something unknown. Dayne did not bother his friend, only silently walked alongside. By this time, the streets were finally deserted, drunkards and homeless people were lying on the sidelines, reminding Arthur of those killed on the battlefield. From still smoldering windows, awkward singing could be heard here and there, and the dark figures, swaying on unstable legs, wandered home, but the city, tired after the long and eventful day was overcome by sleep.

Dayne felt the accumulated fatigue fall on him, pushing him to the ground. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times, trying to force his heavy eyelids remain open. His greatest desire now was to fall into his bed in the White Sword Tower, but first he needed to deliver Rhaegar to the Holdfast safely, and only then he would be allowed to finally rest.

Having returned to the Red Keep, their steps became quieter and they both tried to stay in the shade. When Arthur and the Prince crossed the courtyard, the kingsguard, always alert, noticed a man who was quickly walking towards them. He pushed Rhaegar closer to the wall and squinted, peering into the darkness to make out the mysterious figure.

“This is Tywin Lannister!” He said in surprise. “What is he doing here at this hour?”

Upon hearing this, the Prince seemed to be back in reality. His expression grew serious, and he frowned involuntarily.

“Lord Tywin!” Rhaegar called out suddenly, before Arthur even tried to stop him.

The Hand of the King cautiously turned his head around, trying to distinguish the source of the sound. When he saw the Prince coming towards him, Tywin Lannister visibly calmed down. Arthur chose not to show up and remained standing in the shadows.

“My prince,” Tywin bowed to Rhaegar. “What are you doing here, especially now?” His voice revealed a barely noticeable anxiety, which the Hand was trying to hide.

“I needed some fresh air,” the Prince dismissed. “But I did not expect to see you here at all. What happened? Are you fine?”

“You should ask your father, you can still find him in the throne room,” Tywin answered, shaking his head. Bitterness and poorly controlled anger mixed in his harsh voice. “Perhaps he will explain it better to you than to me. Tomorrow I am leaving for Casterly Rock.”

“Can I help you?” Rhaegar asked with concern.

“I doubt it,” Tywin said. “Take care of my daughter. I will wait for the time when you rightfully sit on the Iron Throne. Trust my experience, the sooner this happens, the better it will be for everyone.”

The Hand walked on; his heavy steps were heard in the yard for quite some time after he had already disappeared in the darkness.

“I'm going to my father,” Rhaegar declared firmly, returning to Arthur.

Dayne looked questioningly at the Prince. Rhaegar nodded, and Arthur silently moved after him. The Prince seemed upset and nervous. Tywin Lannister’s behavior probably bothered him, and he wanted to learn the truth immediately. Arthur felt something similar himself, his sleepiness, in any case, had completely disappeared.

At the doors of the throne room they came across ser Jonothor Darry. Arthur believed that his brother in arms would not let them pass without reporting to the King, but Darry only stepped aside, letting Rhaegar and Arthur inside. Surely Aerys knew that his son would come and confront him at some point and wanted to explain him everything personally. This alone bode no good.

The torches and candles in the throne room were extinguished, the lantern in Rhaegar’s hand had already burned out, and they walked through the darkness, as if they had stepped deep under the waters and on the seabed. Only when they had covered more than half the way, the bulk of the Iron Throne loomed ahead, like a monster gradually creeping out of the mist. From everywhere, the skulls of long-dead dragons gazed at the visitors with their empty eye sockets.

“I wonder why you're not in bed with your wife, Rhaegar?” Aerys' croaking voice cut through the hall. The King's silhouette was barely visible, and it seemed that the throne itself was talking to the Prince. “Pray tell, hadn’t Cersei pleased you enough? Then I, perhaps, was mistaken in comparing her with her mother. She’s not worth a bead from Joanna’s dress.”

Rhaegar swallowed and licked his lips. He did not respond to the insults of his father.

“I came here to find out what happened to Lord Tywin,” the Prince said calmly.

“With Tywin?” The king giggled childishly. “I kicked him out, and he is no longer the Hand of the King. Clever of me, huh? Even your meager mind must appreciate it.”

“I don't quite get it, father.”

Artur noticed Rhaegar's arm twitching faintly. Dayne put a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

“Of course, you don’t get it,” Aerys did not see what was going on with his son, and continued to boast, “you are too stupid for it. You thought, I would give Tywin all power, let people call him a true ruler? Well, I would not. I let him climb high. He climbed long and hard, grunting and moaning along the way, but at the top there was I already waiting for him. Ha-ha! I had no difficulty pushing him down. It was fun to give him his resignation during the Rains of Castamere. Poor Tywin, he will not dare to speak out against me, because I have his daughter.”

“His daughter will become queen one day,” Rhaegar said.

“Maybe she will, or maybe she won’t,” the King grunted. “Anything can happen. You should not forget about Viserys as well.”


	7. Brandon I

It was snowing again today, large white flakes, resembling the light swan fluff, circled in the air and gradually fell to the ground, thickening the already deep snow cover even more. The servants in the courtyard were busy with clearing away the snowdrifts, which grew higher with every passing moment, but it was all useless work, because the white hills sprang up again and again as if by magic. If the snowfall does not stop at night, then the next morning it will be impossible to walk through the yard without snow getting into boots.

Brandon Stark wrapped a warm cloak tightly around him. The cold was so wild that even the northerners accustomed to it began to freeze. This winter lasted long, the summer harvest was threateningly coming to an end, and there were no signs of a new spring yet, even the rare winter thaws stopped visiting the North and all the vast lands beyond Moat Cailin were covered by a massive layer of snow and ice.

Brandon, who looked like a scruffy black raven, stood under the roof of the bridge, which connected the Armory and the Great Keep, and watched his brother and sister spar with the wooden swords in the courtyard. The noise, accompanied by loud screams and mutual threats, was deafening. Servants scurrying around the courtyard looked at the lord Stark’s younger children with a smile and shook their heads. Who ever heard of such a thing that, together with her brother, a girl had also been entrusted with a wooden sword?

“Hey Bran,” a voice shouted from below. “Stop freezing your arse up there! Come down and warm yourself properly.”

“Leave me alone, Ben,” Brandon retorted to his younger brother. “I have long outgrown the wooden swords, and I will leave them for you and your sister. Adults have more important things to do.”

Benjen snorted in displeasure, he was always offended when he was reminded of being the very youngest in the pack of young Starks, but it was impossible to get rid of him in any other way. Brandon smirked involuntarily, watching his brother take a fighting stance and squeeze the hilt of his wooden sword forcefully. His face was so serious, as if it was a real battle.

Brandon still remembered the days when he was the same. Good times they were, funny and carefree. Now he wore a real sword of steel on his belt, and in addition to daily exercises with various weapons, he also had to perform the duties of an heir to Winterfell now. At the behest of his father Brandon became more and more involved in the management of the castle and lands. He had absolutely no time for children's fun

Below, the wooden swords clanked again. Benjen, panting, attacked Lyanna – their only sister. Despite that she was a girl, she was allowed to train with her brother. At first, when lord Stark saw her dressed up in man’s clothes and demanding from ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, to teach her along with her younger brother, their father tried to forbid it. However, Lyanna arrived at the training yard every single day and simply stood aside, watching, and after that she was caught in the godswood, where she was trying to fight an invisible opponent rather clumsily. Having discovered this, their father gave her a good scold, but his sister did not stop her “training”. The first to surrender was ser Rodrick, and then lord Stark gave up on that as well.

“Ouch,” Benjen shouted when Lyanna managed nevertheless to take him unawares and hit him with all her might.

“Do you still want to compete with me?” Brandon shouted in a mocking tone, coming down from the high gallery where he watched the sparring “You can’t even defeat a girl.”

“I'm not a girl!” Lyanna was indignant. Her face, which had only recently looked quite childish, flushed with deep red. Breath from her half-open mouth was pluming in the cold.

“And what are you, if you allow me to ask?” Brandon laughed.

“I'm a knight,” Lyanna stamped her foot and looked at him defiantly.

“Women can’t become knights,” Benjen intervened, he wanted desperately to repay his sister for his loss.

“They can,” Lyanna insisted. “Take at least the sisters of Aegon the Conqueror, since they were in no way inferior to their brother.”

“That was a long time ago,” Brandon grinned. “And upon my word, these dragons are weird, they wed sisters to brothers. You don’t want to marry Ned or Ben, do you?”

Brandon laughed when he had heard their united “No!”, but Lyanna still did not want to give up.

“Well, what about the ladies from the Bear Island, what do you say?”

“Hm,” Brandon pretended to think, “it's just a necessity. You know, I do not see a crowd of pirates climbing the walls of Winterfell to abduct a brave lady ... ah!” An iron hard snowball had hit his shoulder, however, a strike that took him by surprise did not stop Brandon from speaking further. “I don’t remember,” he continued, rolling his own snowball between his fingers and dangerously approaching his sister, “that lady Mormont was even once called ser Maege.”

Brandon grinned and threw a snowball at Lyanna with all his strength, but his sister dodged and, pleased with her swiftness, stuck her tongue at him. Brandon attacked a couple more times, but to no avail, Lyanna was smaller and quicker than him.

“And how you’re going to please your husband? With the sword as well?” Brandon laughed.

Upon hearing the words, Benjen laughed as well, echoing his brother, and Lyanna blushed deeply and began to beat Brandon desperately with the flat side of a wooden blade.

“I won’t marry at all,” Lyanna said, watching her brother choke on laughter. His thick fur coat softened the blows, that were not initially too strong. “And if you decide to force me, I will run away, and you will never catch me!”

Tired of all this, Brandon grabbed his sister's hand and pulled a wooden sword from her fingers. Lyanna spun, trying to free herself, and hissed at him, but Brandon was stronger. He no longer let her out of his grip, and, tripping her up, he tumbled them both down to the ground and began to shove the snow under her collar, never stopping to laugh. Benjen, watching all this, could not stand still and with a cry worth a true wildling he jumped on his brother and sister. The three of them turned into a screeching pile, resembling more a pack of fighting dogs than children of a grand lord.

“What's going on here?” From the bridge, where Brandon was standing only moments ago, they heard the voice of their father, stern and cold, like the North itself.

All three of the young Starks jumped immediately to their feet and began to brush off the snow. White flakes had stuck not only to their clothes, but also in Brandon's hair, eyebrows and beard. From the outside, they, for sure, resembled now the mysterious Others, which old Nan used to tell them about in her frightening tales of old.

“You see,” Brandon began, “I am teaching these young people how to fight...”

“I see,” Lord Rickard Stark nodded. “Very nice indeed. Lyanna, septa Jenna is waiting for you, go inside now please.”

His sister obeyed respectfully. She almost never contradicted her father, and only if the matter concerned something really important, Lyanna became surprisingly stubborn, and forcing her to change her mind was not easier than trying to move the Wall itself.

“As for you, Brandon, please follow me.”

Brandon wondered what awaited him. Surely, another reprimand, saying that rolling about in the snow with his younger siblings no longer befitted him, that soon he would have to marry and become a father himself, and it was time to learn at least some responsibility. Brandon knew all these lines almost by heart.

Thanks to the famous hot springs, waters of which flowed through the walls of Winterfell, the castle stayed warm, even when there was a severe frost outside, and the wind howled like a lone wolf. Hot air gently stroked Brandon's cheeks reddened from the cold, and he felt the cozy warmth caress his skin tenderly. The heavy winter cloak, indispensable out of doors, was almost strangling him now, and Brandon threw it into the hands of a passing servant, for the cloak now screamed to be thoroughly cleaned. The snow which had stuck to Brandon and which he had never completely removed, began to melt little by little, leaving wet marks on the floor.

Brandon's skin was enjoying the pleasant heat, but inside him everything seemed to freeze, it felt like fierce northern frost got right into his bones, turning them into ice. Having finally entered Lord Rickard’s solar, Brandon remained standing at the door. His lord father looked displeasedly at the small puddle of melting snow under his son’s feet and shook his head tiredly.

“Sit down,” Lord Rickard said shortly, and Brandon landed onto a chair obediently. “Lucky for you, I have no time to discuss the thing I’ve just witnessed in the yard, I believe, you already know what I think about it.”

Brandon looked up from his wet boots and stared at his father with interest. Lord Rickard picked up a piece of parchment from his table and muttered thoughtfully:

“Dark wings, dark words.”

“What happened, father?” Brandon asked excitedly. All of a sudden, he had regretted his behavior in the yard. His father already had enough on his shoulders to worry about, and the eldest son should have become a support for Lord Rickard, and not another disappointment. Ned would have behaved smarter in his place, but Ned was far away, in the Eyrie, and it was still Brandon who was the heir to the grand lord of the North, and not poor Ned.

“A raven arrived from King’s Landing,” Lord Rickard rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “It is signed by lord Symond Staunton, but it was compiled on behalf and with the permission of the King.”

“Why had Aerys remembered about us so suddenly?” Brandon leaned forward in surprise. It was a long time since the King had looked north, the dragon's claws did not seem to reach these lands of snow and cold at all, and the northerners were reminded about King’s Landing only when it was time to pay taxes.

“I’m not aware of the King’s motives,” Lord Rickard shook his head. “Perhaps we have ceased to be cautious enough and caught his attention. However, now it doesn’t matter. Either we made a mistake, or Aerys is not so insane as being told. Whatever it is, what has happened cannot be changed.”

“You scare me, father,” Brandon said.

“And there’s something to be afraid of,” Lord Rickard warned, and his eyes of steel gazed carefully at his son, like two sharp swords. “You and Lyanna are invited to the court.”

For a moment Brandon felt genuine surprise, the news was so unexpected, but anxiety sneaked into his heart and stayed there. In one instant, he managed to come up with a hundred different reasons, and he did not like all of them, and the most obvious one he liked least of all.

“What will you answer him, father?”

“You ask as if I have a choice,” a sad grin flickered on lord Rickard’s lips. “This will hinder some of our plans, of course, but I cannot openly refuse the King.”

“Why not?” Brandon was surprised. “Both lords Tully and Arryn will support you, as well as Robert Baratheon, he will listen to lord Arryn, and Ned is his best friend. I thought that everything has been decided a long time ago between you on this matter.”

Lord Rickard sighed wearily, his fingers rushing back to the bridge of his nose, as if he were experiencing a headache. His thick dark eyebrows, covered with gray hair as if with thick northern snow, frowned intensely.

“You speak too openly, Bran,” Lord Rickard still continued to twist the King’s message between his callused fingers. “It is tolerable, when you are at home, but you should not allow such talks in the King’s Landing even with those you trust. Ears there are sharp and attentive, you never know whom they serve and where they hide. Perhaps this invitation is just one of Aerys’ whims, but I highly doubt it. He suspects something, which means someone informed him.”

“You talk to me like I'm a ten-year-old,” Brandon folded his arms on his chest in displeasure.

“No, Bran, I do not consider you a child, I only ask you to listen to what I have to say. Wolf’s blood is strong in you, as it is in your sister, and the royal court is not a place for direwolves. Direwolf is a tough beast, but a cunning snake can always bite it at night when it sleeps. You have to be very careful in a place where, smiling to your face, people are ready to stick a dagger in your back. Take care of yourself, Bran, and take care of your sister, she is still so young and can act recklessly. I hope you both will behave as it befits a Stark.”

“Why haven’t you called for Lyanna as well? Why am I here alone?” Brandon asked.

“I'll talk to her later,” Lord Rickard waved off.

“You did not answer my previous question,” Brandon recalled.

“Well, if you please,” his lord father said it somehow reluctantly, as if he did not want to discuss such a slippery topic with his son at all. “If you count only my men and the men of the lords you’ve named, then our forces are not as large as it might seem. For sure, you will object right away that together with the bannermen we will form an impressive army, however, I would have to tell you, that there is no certainty in the loyalty of our vassals. I have almost no doubt in the support from the northern lords, but in other lands this may not be the case. The Griffin’s Roost swore allegiance to the Baratheons, but lord Connington is a close friend of Prince Rhaegar and he will never go against the Targaryens, his lands are vast, and he has enough men to strengthen the side he’ll choose to fight for. At the same time, Dorne will stand against us, rumors are going around that Lucerys Velaryon went there to offer a betrothal between Prince Doran’s daughter and Viserys Targaryen. It is hard to say with whom the Reach will side, but, I think, they will support the King. What’s more, Aerys will have the army of Tywin Lannister at his full disposal, and the old lion alone is a serious threat.”

“I’ve heard,” Brandon objected, “that after Tywin was purged from the position of the Hand, he harbored a grudge against the King.”

“His daughter is the wife of the Crown Prince. For her sake and for the sake of her future children, he will step over his resentment and support the King,” Lord Rickard did not agree.

“It was not the King, I meant,” Brandon said. “But Prince Rhaegar.”

“Prince Rhaegar,” Lord Rickard mused thoughtfully, “could have become another strong player, perhaps even the strongest. He could have, if he had wanted to. He is loved by the common folk, and he could easily lead people. He has many supporters, but he does nothing to unite them around him, he does not participate in politics at all, he is occupied only by books, and sad love songs. By his attitude, he reminds me of King Aenys the First, and I hope you remember how his reign had ended. Lord Jon considers the Crown Prince too weak-willed, and I tend to agree with that. But forget the Prince, I wanted to talk about something else with you. I received this letter from the King about two weeks ago. I informed lord Arryn of this shortly, and he grew suspicious no less than me.”

His father fell silent for a moment and reached for the papers lying on the table, took out another letter and ran his eyes across it, apparently it was the very thing that he had received from the lord of the Vale. Brandon watched his father closely, but didn’t ask anything more, he didn’t like that lord Rickard chose not to tell him anything, preferring to settle such matters alone with lord Arryn.

“They want to trap us,” his father continued. “We must obey. However, we can use your trip to King's Landing to our advantage. I do not want to drag your sister into it, she is still such a child. But you, Bran, you must learn from them, you must become like them, better than them, you must listen carefully and notice everything.”

“And pass it on to you?” Brandon specified, although his father’s intentions were absolutely clear.

“Yes,” Lord Rickard agreed. “You got it right.”

“And if I don’t want it?” Brandon snapped. Now he was being entrusted with such a task, which, he knew for sure, was far beyond his abilities.

“You must,” lord Rickard said coldly, and the sharp swords of his eyes flashed desperately. “You have a duty to your family.”

“Father,” Brandon's voice sounded doomed. “You must understand that I'm terribly bad at that.”

“I know that,” a spring thaw could be heard in his father's frozen tone, and his gaze softened a little. He seemed to feel sorry for his son but remained determined. “However, we have no other choice, so you will have to do it. And let us finish here, we’ll talk again before your departure. Could you be so kind and fetch Lyanna, while I start to compose a response to the King. This alone is not an easy task.”

Brandon left with a heavy heart and went to look for his sister. He had found her pretty quickly: Lyanna, along with Daisy, the daughter of the Winterfell’s castellan, and septa Jenna, sat over their embroidery. She had already changed her training attire to a simple home dress and put her hair in order, her gray eyes were focused on the needle, as if she looked at the fiercest enemy. His sister's face was twitched from tension, and she literally huffed with zeal, but her work, judging by the displeased expression of the septa, turned out to be only mediocre.

“If you continue to run around with your sword,” septa Jenna grumbled, “you will never succeed in womanly arts. I will never understand why your lord father permits this. When the time comes for you to marry, your husband will teach you modesty and obedience.”

Lyanna mumbled something under her breath so that the septa, deaf in one ear from the old age, could not hear anything. Judging by the frenzy with which his sister thrust the needle into the fabric, she was angry.

“Look at you, Lyanna,” Brandon said, “you are more chaste than the Maiden herself.”

His sister raised her head and smiled at him furtively. Brandon winked in response: he knew how she hated the time she had to spend with septa and Daisy, whom she considered the most boring ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Father wants to see you; you may find him in his solar.”

Brandon noticed how the smile on Lyanna’s lips faded instantly.

“Father is cross with me?” She asked in alarm.

“No,” Brandon shook his head. “But it would be better if he was cross.”

Lyanna stood up and approached her brother, looking uncertain. It seemed that she had expected him to say something else, but Brandon said nothing, and only stroked her shoulder fleetingly. He watched her until she was consumed by the dark passages of Winterfell. Before vanishing around the corner, Lyanna turned to Brandon. There was a question in her gaze, but he only waved a hand at her. Leaving septa Jenna and Daisy alone, he left the great keep, crossed the main courtyard and headed for the rookery.

The snow had not stopped yet and flew into his face, forcing him to squint constantly. Whether it was due to the cold wind or his own sensible reasoning, but Brandon had cooled down a little, and no longer felt the irritation that had swept over him after talking with his father. Perhaps a trip to King's Landing would benefit him. Perhaps it would even give him a little freedom. Now his wedding to Catelyn Tully, which hung over Brandon like a sharp sword, will be postponed. He will no longer have to become a husband and father so soon, he will no longer have to play the obedient role of an heir to the grand lord of the North, and he can somehow cope with the role of a spy.

“My lord?” The voice of maester Walys came so unexpectedly that Brandon shuddered. They stood on the stairs leading to the rookery, where the castle ravens lived and the maester’s humble dwelling was also located.

“Are you leaving?” Brandon asked.

“Yes,” Walys nodded. “But if you need something ...”

“Parchment and quill,” Brandon interrupted.

“Of course, my lord,” the maester bowed.

They climbed into the most modest chamber occupied by the maester, where Brandon received the necessary writing materials. Walys waited calmly for him to finish and seal his message, and then, bowing again, went to the ravens.

Brandon returned outside and, having no purpose at all, headed for the bridge, from where he watched his brother and sister in the morning. Now it was dark around, and the courtyard was full of soundlessness, broken only by the mournful howls of the wind. The servants who were cleaning the snow went to their small chambers, and now the entire space of the courtyard was covered with an even white carpet. Snowflakes continued to fall down, as if they wanted to cover the whole world with their cold cloak.

Brandon thought that, having received his letter, Barbrey Ryswell would probably cry, but the thought of it did not touch a single part of his heart. He would want to feel at least shame, but this feeling did not visit him. He took a deep breath and felt the frost burn the insides of his nose.

“I knew I would find you here.”

Brandon turned and met his sister's eyes, she stood a little behind, her face seemed pale in the dark, and the play of shadows sharpened her features. Brandon only shrugged and said nothing. Lyanna didn’t say anything either, but for some time she stood next to him and just as aimlessly watched the snow spinning in the air.

“Could I even think when I woke up this morning that my life would change so dramatically by the time it is dark?” She suddenly said, sadness vibrated in her voice.

“You don’t want to leave, do you?” Brandon asked.

“Do you really want to?” Lyanna sounded surprised.

“I don't know,” he admitted.

“We will be strangers there,” Lyanna mused. “Direwolves cannot survive in the south. Our place is here.”

“Don't think about it,” Brandon hugged his sister. “Do you know that all glorious stories always start with a journey? Imagine that now we are heading towards a wonderful adventure.” 


	8. The Faithfull Servant

The woman beneath him groaned loudly, but the lord was not at all afraid that they could have been heard. His lady wife was away visiting her parents for about a month, and the servants had long known about Beta. Even the gossip about the master's paramour had died down as no longer entertaining. A common child had served as a living proof of their affair for three years already. According to lord’s wishes, the boy was settled in his house and raised with his legitimate son. His wife was deeply offended, but kept it to herself, and he was not going to ask her opinions on the matter.

The cheap candle standing by the bed was already burning out and smoked, filling the room with a smell of tallow. In its dim light, the sheets seemed yellow, but maybe they just hadn't been washed for a long time: Beta had always been bad at housekeeping. The lord looked at her features blurred with the veil of recent pleasure. After giving birth she had become a little more stout, and her beauty began to fade slowly, although even in her best years she was not half as beautiful as the girl that once made the lord search for her replica all around Westeros and Essos. The original could not belong to him, so he had to be content with what was available.

The lord still recalled the one that had captured his heart and soul, which from that day on would never be free, he recalled all that pitifully small number of occasions when he had been bestowed the luck to have seen her: from the very first meeting to the parting, that had had him broken into tiny pieces.

A few years ago, he went to Pentos to solve some affairs of state. The journey promised to be boring at the beginning, the sea had not sent a storm upon him, and issues were resolved quickly and promptly. The lord believed that he would leave for home soon, having successfully completed all his missions. All but one, though that last task was so unrealistic that no one had ever counted on success.

The rich and influential magister of Pentos had held a grand feast in his honor. Honey-gold and blood-red wine flowed like water, and stomachs burst from the abundance of exotic dishes. The lord himself enjoyed all these riches, which had not been the case even at the royal court, however, when he saw her among the dancers, the lord no longer thought of attractive dishes or good wine. Her silver-gold hair shone in the candlelight, and her deep purple eyes sparkled with amusement.

After that, the lord could no longer sit still. He went up to her and was surprised that he was overcome by terrible embarrassment. Blood rushed to his face, colouring his cheeks in deep red. The gaze of her violet eyes rested upon him, and the lord felt speechless, her grin, caused by his confusion, deeply wounded him. Finally, burning with awkwardness, he introduced himself and asked to grant him the next dance. Contrary to his expectations, the girl agreed, making the lord regret this request, because the prospect of dancing with her now filled him with horror.

The lord had never possessed much grace and lightness, and now he only stumbled and stepped on the girl's feet almost twice. In small talk, he also had not succeed. Having learned that her name was Daella, and having told her a little about himself, the lord had not managed to find other topics and thought only of how absurdly he looked in her eyes. The girl tried to make him talk further, but he answered inappropriately and in monosyllabic utterances and therefore was ashamed even more.

“Are you always so silent?” Daella asked in a playful tone.

“No,” he admitted, and the colour hit his face again. “Only when I’m with you.”

“Hm,” she grinned. “And what I did to deserve such a punishment?”

The lord lifted his eyes for a moment, but then again lowered them, unable to bear her slightly arrogant and confident gaze. Where did his own firmness go, his smugness, for which he was constantly reproached? Now he, a full-grown man already, looked like a young boy in love. Not a single woman, not even his own wife, had ever made such impression on him and what’s more, had ever been able to domineer over him in such manner.

“I'm afraid to make a bad impression on you,” the lord muttered.

“Oh, come on,” Daella trilled with laughter. “Believe me, it will not be possible for you. My impression of you has already taken shape.”

“And what does it look like?” The lord asked and dared himself to glance into her purple pools.

“If it looked bad,” Daella smiled slyly, “I wouldn’t have been dancing with you right now, but I will say no more.”

At that point, when the lord has forced himself to be a little bolder, and their conversation flowed more freely, the dance ended, and the lord had to take the girl back to her place. He did not want to leave her, and in order to justify his presence near her somehow, he had to speak of something.

“Are you alone here?” He asked.

“I’m with my mother,” Daella motioned towards the plump, old woman who sat at the table visibly enjoying the offered dishes. Her hair was the same silver-gold colour as that of her daughter, and a seal of the former beauty still shone on her swollen face.

“Your mother ...” the lord began. “You ... Am I allowed to see you again?”

“Why not?” Daella shrugged. “It is not forbidden. However, so that you do not foster false hopes, I must tell you that I am engaged and will soon get married. Mother says my betrothed will be useful to us in our business, and I would not want to disappoint her,” saying this, Daella raised her eyes and looked towards the high table, where the magister was sitting, surrounded by other men of nobility. Surely, one of these arrogant handsome men was destined to be her husband.

The lord's heart fluttered, broke, and sank somewhere down. She is promised to another, she will never belong to him. He had only just found her, and she was already lost for him. He felt small stinging at his heart, and then such pain overwhelmed him as if his chest was pierced by a sword. Daella looked at him indulgently. She seemed to feel sorry for him, but his unhappy fate did not bother her at all.

Having parted with her that day, the lord decided not to seek her company again, as after just one encounter she had become for him as inevitable as the Doom itself. However, the gods judged differently, and Daella had allegedly pursued him with a series of random, or arranged, meetings. He even had the honour of being introduced to her mother. The old lady seemed to like him. She questioned him for a long time about his affairs, about his possessions and his position in the society of Westeros. For a moment it seemed to him that she could change her mind and trust him with her daughter’s hand, but this, of course, could not have happened.

With each new encounter, he became attached to Daella more and more, as if she had woven a network of invisible spells around him that were designed to bewitch him and keep him close. The desire to leave Pentos as soon as possible fought deep inside him with the treacherous thought of remaining here forever and becoming a faithful dog of his beloved.

Daella had even come to the harbour to see him off. Surrounded by his servants and making his way through a diverse crowd, where port beggars in robes mixed up with rich gentlemen in silks, he saw her standing at the very pier. Her valyrian hair was visible from afar, and although in the Free Cities her valyrian looks were not as rare as in Westeros, he immediately realized that it was Daella. It looked as if there was an invisible wall around her, Daella had no guards, but still no one dared to approach her. Nearby, her mother was talking about something with the captain of the ship. For a moment, the lord was struck by the vain hope that they wanted to sail away with him, but it melted away, as soon as Daella spoke.

“I came to say goodbye,” she grabbed his hand, and her violet eyes looked at the lord meaningfully.

“Well,” he did not find, what else to say. “Goodbye, my lady.”

“I will be thinking about you,” she said in a sad voice.

“I will not forget you either,” he lowered his eyes. His hand was still clenched with her fingers. “Listen,” he removed a silver brooch in the form of his house sigil from his expensive caftan and handed it to her. “It will remind you of me, even if you decide to forget me. If you ever need my help, you just have to send me a message chipped by this brooch, and I will find you anywhere, in Westeros, in Essos, or even in the yet unknown lands.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she intoned, accepting his gift joyfully. “I hope you will not regret your promise when the time comes for you to fulfill it.”

“I will not regret it,” the lord said firmly, “be sure of it. Farewell, my lady.”

“Farewell”.

Daella's gaze slid over him again, her lips twitched slightly in an attempt to smile, and she dissolved in the motley crowd, never looking back again. The lord stared after her, not taking his eyes off, until she completely disappeared from his sight.

The image faded, and the lord's eyes fell on Beta's face again. Pray, why had he ever thought that she looked something like his Daella? Beta's hair had the colour of unclean silver, and her eyes, although purple, possessed a mixture of a gray dirt in them. She told him herself that her father was the bastard to a Dayne of Dorne, and she had nothing to do with the old Valyria, although she was granted with some of valyrian features.

Beta turned on her side and grumbled satisfactorily, and the lord covered her mulchy body with a sheet. He did not want to look at her anymore, the excitement caused by her skillful caresses had long gone, and the lord felt exhausted and tired. He waited until Beta’s breathing became even, got out of bed, dressed and went out. Despite the pleasure he had just received, his body ached, as if from unreleased tension. In a couple of days, he should go back to King’s Landing, he was tired of this place, tired of Beta.

His wife, a quiet and inconspicuous woman, had been of no interest for the lord for quite a long time already, and after the birth of an heir, the lord paid almost no attention to her. He did not take her on any trips with him, she constantly stayed in the castle, leaving only to visit her relatives a couple of times a year. Now he was also not going to wait for her return. Their son traveled with her, but the lord hardly remembered his heir, he barely knew this boy, no better than his bastard. His fatherly affections were limited to presenting both of his sons with expensive gifts for a name day each year.

Grabbing the torch, the lord climbed the castle wall. The fire, however, had been immediately extinguished, destroyed by a sharp gust of salty wind. Somewhere below, the sea was rustling, it caressed the coast, like a skilled lover, and stroke the rocks with the warhammer of a brave warrior. The lord smelled salt and felt the chill of the splashes of water settling on his skin. At night, the water seemed black, like an open abyss, ready to devour the whole world. The lord stared at it, struck by its grandeur and beauty, violent and warlike.

“My lord,” someone called softly.

The lord turned around and saw his steward standing close to the wall. The man was afraid to move away from there, fearing that he would feel dizzy. The ominous night sea scared him.

“What it is you want, Tom?” The lord asked, wondering why anybody could need him at that hour.

“Forgive me, my lord, for bothering you so late, but down there there’s a man waiting for you at the gate,” the steward muttered.

“Send him away, Tom,” the lord said sternly. “I do not have time for the rabble.”

“He knew that you would say so,” a fright ran over the steward's face. “He asked me to give you this.”

A moment later, a silver brooch lay in the lord’s palm, the very one he had not seen for almost five years and thought he would never see again. Silver had darkened and was no longer shining, but he was sure to recognize this brooch from the hundreds of others. The lord's fingers tightened around the brooch and, without saying a word to Tom, he rushed down the stairs, almost ran across the courtyard and soon found himself at the gate.

“She said that you would come at once, and she was right,” said the man standing at the gate. He was wrapped in a dark cloak; a hood was covering his face.

“Who are you?” The lord demanded an answer.

“My name won’t tell you anything,” the stranger said calmly. “It is enough that I know yours. Do you want to see her?”

“Lead the way.”

As soon as they went out of the gate and rushed to the village that lay below, clinging to the castle, it started to rain. At first it looked like small splashes from the sea water that flew apart, when a wave hit a rock, but soon the rain took the full power. As they reached the village, the clothes lord wore were wet through and through, and water was squelching in his boots, but he did not care. From the anticipation of a meeting with her, his body was burning with frantic fire, and it seemed to the lord that the moisture from his clothes was about to start evaporating.

The stranger took him to the house, standing at a distance, as if the other houses, conspiring with each other, decided to put it away. An old woman who used to live there, was regarded as a witch by the superstitious peasants. As far as the lord knew, she was really involved in black things, but they had nothing to do with magic, but rather with smuggling, so the old woman only profited from the suspicions of her neighbours. After she had died, the house stood empty, for no one dared to approach it.

The stranger opened the door before him, letting the lord walk inside, but the sleeping caution had woken suddenly in him and he forced the stranger to go in first. Inside, on a dusty wooden table, stood an almost extinguished candle, and next to it a woman was sitting on a roughly built wooden chair. The lord was full of excitement and his heart trembled desperately. The woman threw the scarf away from her head, and he drowned in the purple eyes of his longtime beloved.

“Daella,” he whispered, hardly audible. The lord barely restrained himself from rushing to her and wrapping her in a hug.

“I knew you would keep your promise,” she said. “That is why, when I was forced to flee, I knew that I could come to you.”

“Flee?” He was surprised.

“It's a long story,” Daella said, she was staring into the dimly lit square of the window with an unseeing gaze. “My husband was murdered by our enemies, and I was forced to leave Pentos forever. Lionel here is my faithful servant,” she nodded towards the stranger, “he advised me to get lost in the other Free Cities or hide even deeper. But I decided it was time for me to return to Westeros.”

“I never knew Westeros was your homeland,” the lord looked at her in bewilderment. Who is she then?

“The homeland of my ancestors,” Daella pronounced proudly. “But I always dreamed of coming back here. All my childhood was filled with stories about Westeros that my mother used to tell me, and the vivid imagination of a little girl painted wonderful pictures of all these beautiful lands for me. I waited for long, and now my time has come.”

The lord did not understand what she was talking about, but her face was firm and full of determination. He listened to Daella poorly and was busy glaring at her every small feature. Her looks had not changed much over the years, except that they had become sharper and firmer. As soon as the lord was in the same room with her, he fell under her mysterious spell again at once, he was ready to do whatever she asked.

“Mum thought it was too early,” Daella continued. “But I think now is the time, especially when I have you by my side.”

“You know yourself,” the lord muttered, “that I’m ready to do everything for you, but I couldn’t understand so far what you are asking me for.”

“So far I haven’t asked you anything,” Daella said. She turned away from the window and looked straight into the lord's eyes. “And before I do this, I must warn you that what I have in mind is dangerous, very dangerous. Will you be on this road with me?”

“I am yours,” he knelt before her. The lord pulled his sword from the scabbard and laid it in front of her, bowing his head low. “My heart and my sword belong only to you.”

She touched his cheek, her eyes getting wet.

“I knew,” she said with the feeling. “I knew that you were my most faithful and devoted friend. Now I can tell you everything.”

Lionel, who was watching them closely all the time, wanted to object, but Daella stopped him with a commanding gesture. When she spoke, the lord could not believe what he was hearing. He could have guessed, but he was always so blinded by his feelings for her that he simply did not think about it. Now everything was becoming clear and simple, like a page of an open book. The lord cast a quick glance at Lionel: the man looked at Daella with no less reverence than himself.

“I wish you to know, my lord,” she said at the end. “I do not want all of this for myself. A child grows inside me, and I am sure that it is a son. I want to do this for him, I want him to get what is his by right and what was taken from him. Do you doubt the veracity of my words, my friend?”

“No, my lady,” he shook his head.

“Nevertheless, I want to show you that I am only telling the truth. Bring it here, Lionel.”

Lionel withdrew dutifully and returned after a few moments with a long bundle of fabric. He carefully laid it in front of Daella and stepped aside. The woman unfolded the fabric neatly, and the bastard sword appeared in front of the lord. Its dark gray, almost black shady surface did not reflect light, and seemed to merge with the night itself. _Valyrian steel is always covered with smoke, for its soul is dark_ , the lord remembered the common phrase he once heard. He held out his hand and hesitantly touched the cold blade, an ancient force was felt in it.

“Caution,” Daella warned. “It is unusually sharp.”

“Is this it?” The lord only asked, continuing to gaze at the blade bewitchingly. The lord did not need confirmation, he already knew what kind of sword it was.

“Yes,” whispered Daella, entranced. “I will give it to my son, and someday it will hang on the king’s belt again.”


	9. Lyanna I

The skies of King’s Landing reflected in her eyes, just as gray and sad. Clouds hung low over the city and, by night, they would probably erupt with a heavy, cold rain. Winter rains had constantly haunted her ever since she had left her dear North, bare trees and heavy clouds made the daytime seem even darker than the twilight. Lyanna missed the snow, a sparkling white veil, which filled everything with bright light. Now she had only black earth and gray stone around her, and even the majestic Red Keep seemed dull and lost in its sad thoughts.

The snowfalls changed into heavy rains when Lyanna, Brandon and their modest escort had reached the Neck. At first it turned into a wet sleet, and then became pure water. Once Lyanna had gotten so wet because of the icy downpours that she had to leave her saddle for a wooden wagon, where the rest of the women travelled. Her favourite silver-creamy mare, named Dayflower, was exiled to their small wagon train.

Inside the wagon, septa Jenna was reading the Seven-Pointed Star, and Daisy was looking out of the tiny window with the silly expression on her face, Lyanna’s maid – Lotha, whom young lady Stark was bringing with her to the capital, sat huddled in a corner and remained silent. Lyanna had heard that in the south little children were obliged to read the Holy Book and was glad that the Old Gods had spared her this ordeal, and the old septa had taught her only womanly wisdom. It had been times, when Lyanna wondered what a septa was doing in the North, but even if she asked questions, her father dismissed them. Septa Jenna had just appeared in Winterfell once, when Lyanna was still a little girl, and stayed. Nobody asked her to leave, and she faithfully served the house Stark, she had never insulted the Old Gods and raised the only daughter of the Warden of the North as good as she knew.

Under the supervision of maester Walys Lyanna and her brothers had studied reading and writing, counting, history and heraldry, however, these classes had ended for her much earlier, and she was forced to do needlework and other sorts of domestic arts. Apparently, for septa Jenna, the greatest ability of a woman was to bury her husband under the mountain of handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers.

Brandon rode alongside a wagon, which was shaking on the road bumps, heavy streams of water falling from the sky, poured down the hood, which was pulled over his head. A small number of Winterfell home guards travelled with them, as well as Brandon's squire and other servants whom the Starks would need in the capital. Even if Lyanna had violently resisted the need to go to the King’s Landing, she was glad that she would be still surrounded by the people she had known since her childhood, whom she could rely on no matter what.

At first, Lyanna had enjoyed the trip pretty much, she spoke with great delight to the locals they had met on the way. She took the map from Brandon and tried to read it, constantly distracting her brother with questions about their whereabouts. When the sky stopped shedding tears for a while, Lyanna mounted Dayflower and galloped around the picturesque surroundings, and Albyn Snow, the commander of their guards, who was assigned to look after her, could never catch her. Albyn was said to be the bastard to one of the Lord Rickard’s bannermen. Lord Stark once agreed to bring him up, perhaps he knew who the boy's parents were, but he never talked about it.

When Lyanna had ridden a horse for the first time, Albyn, who had been almost a fully grown young man by that time, was given a task to keep an eye on her, and it turned out so that he had been watching over her ever since then, although Lyanna had mastered riding much better than him.

Having passed Moat Cailin, they found themselves right in the middle of the swamps. Albyn warned Lyanna that it was dangerous to get off the road: the passage ran along the embankment, specially constructed back in the reign of King Jaehaerys first of his name, and from the both sides of the roadway treacherous bogs surrounded the travelers. It took only to step into them accidently, and an unknown hand would grab your foot and drag you down into a dark pool, from where there would be no return. Brandon kept an eye on Lyanna, and she kept to the road herself. Albyn’s terrible stories frightened her, although she would never admit it to anyone.

The landscape all around was enchanting: huge trees, with dark, impressive trunks covered with the green moss, protruded from the blue-black swampy water. Fog lay low over the swamps, hiding everything that was concealed there. If one got close to the edge of the road, one could hear quiet splashes and see circles scattering across the water.

“Lady Lyanna, come here at once,” septa Jenna shouted.

It was early morning, the sky was just beginning to brighten, and Lyanna, taking advantage of being the first to get up, set off to admire the swamps alone. If one didn’t get too close to them, then they didn’t seem scary at all, rather mysterious, full of riddles that could not be solved.

“I'm coming,” Lyanna cried back, by no means intending to return to the tent.

After a while, Daisy came up to her and pulled at her wide, fur-trimmed sleeve.

“Come on, my lady,” she looked at Lyanna almost pleadingly. “You are wanted at the breakfast table, and lord Brandon is very angry. He says that it is no good to look at snakes and lizard-lions here. Any snake can bite you and you will die right where you stand.”

Lyanna burst out laughing.

“Look, what a beauty, Daisy,” she pointed to the water forest stretching before them. “Look, what a fog! Thick and white, like milk! This is true magic, Daisy! Surely someone is hiding there, and not only these snakes and lizard-lions of yours. I would have liked to explore it so very much!”

Lyanna turned to Daisy, but the girl continued to stare at her gloomily. She definitely did not care about magic at all.

“Well,” Lyanna sighed in disappointment. “Come on, Daisy, we should not keep my brother waiting.”

They walked towards the tent, maneuvering inside the small crowd, that had formed as soon as the majority of travelers had woken up. The Kingsroad was the only route running through endless swamps in these lands, so the number of travelers assembled here were comparable to the most popular fair in White Harbour, larger amounts of people Lyanna had never seen in her life. Travelers had to spend the night right on the road, so rich lords and ladies, though low in number, put up tents, merchants slept in their wagons, and errant knights and common folk lay down right on the ground, hiding under their cloaks. Now, when the sky, gray from the heavy clouds, had filled all the space with light, marking the arrival of the morning, all this motley anthill woke up, had a quick breakfast and was preparing to go on with the further journey.

“There you are,” Brandon shook his head at the sight of his sister, but his dark gray eyes smiled. “Septa Jenna is terribly angry with you for not listening to her at all.”

“Sorry, brother,” Lyanna lowered her head, not hiding the smile that flashed on her lips. “I went to see the forest.”

Brandon sighed, but did not scold her. Lyanna knew that his reprimands, for the most part, were only a necessity that his position required, and while his sister did not put herself in danger, he allowed her a lot. If Brandon were younger and freer himself, he would go with her, home in the North he was called the Wild Wolf after all.

“I called after you,” Brandon continued, “to introduce you to our friend who kindly visited us to pay his respects.”

A young man stepped towards Lyanna out of the shadows in the dark corner. He was small and thin, thick brown hair lay on his head like a cap, but his eyes were the feature that caught most of the attention immediately: deep green, sparkling brighter than emeralds, even in the dim light of the tent. Their color was unusual, and the look in them was unusual even more so, as they were not the eyes of a young boy, but the eyes of an ancient old man.

“This is lord Howland Reed, our father’s bannerman, as you might know,” Brandon pointed to the guest. It seemed that her brother did not find anything peculiar in Lord Reed at all. “Howland, this is my sister, lady Lyanna Stark.”

Reed bowed low, and Lyanna mastered an elegant curtsy, after which Brandon finally allowed everyone to sit down at the table.

“What brings you here, lord Reed?” Lyanna inquired.

“As your brother had already mentioned, my lady,” said Reed in a voice a little hoarse and at the same time high, “I intended to pay my respects to you and lord Brandon.”

“But how did you know that we would be here today?” Lyanna asked surprised.

Reed cast a slightly worried look at Brandon and only then answered:

“I have seen you in a dream two nights ago,” he said quietly. “Then I immediately departed from the Graywater Watch and hurried here to catch you.”

“That's a miracle!” Lyanna exclaimed. She glanced at her brother. He only smiled indulgently, but was silent, it seemed, the stories about prophetic dreams from the lord of the Neck were not new to him. “Do you see the future in your dreams?”

“Yes,” Reed nodded. Despite Brandon's smirk, which he undoubtedly noticed, Reed's face remained serious.

“That must be extraordinarily interesting,” Lyanna said admirably. She had forgotten about her breakfast completely, and the boiled peas on her plate had long since cooled down. “Probably, compared to yours, my dreams are awfully boring!”

“We call these dreams green,” Reed continued to recount. “They do not come at the first call, but only at the time when the gods want to reveal something important to us. But even then, the gods rarely speak directly, wrapping their message in a riddle full of symbols that can be interpreted in many different ways.”

“I would have liked to have an opportunity to see the future,” Lyanna said with a sigh, “especially now, when I’m going to the dragon’s den no less! What is waiting for me so far from my home?”

“You are going to meet your fate, my lady,” Reed said quietly, “and even if you had stayed at Winterfell now, it would have overtaken you no matter what happened.”

“Have you seen me in your dreams?” Lyanna froze and felt a faint tremor run through her body. No matter how much she wanted to know her future, now she felt uneasy. What if it turned out to be something she did not want to know, what if something terrible awaited her right around the corner?

Reed did not answer for a long time. It looked as if he plunged into deep thought, and together with him all the others present in the tent went silent as well. Daisy looked at the lord of the Neck with awe, and Brandon stopped grinning.

“Yes,” Reed said finally.

“And what have you seen?” Lyanna asked, bewitched. Since he was not eager to tell her, it was definitely something bad.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Reed bowed his head, “but I will not tell you. Predictions and prophecies are dangerous things. When they become known to us, they enslave our mind and will. We strive to either fulfill or stop them. We lack understanding that if the prophecy is true, then it will be fulfilled, no matter what we do. Once again, I beg your pardon, my lady, I have already said too much.”

For a few moments a tense, mushy silence hung over them, the only remaining sounds were distant voices from the outside, which seemed now quiet and muffled, and the rustle of the wind in the folds of the tent. Lyanna’s heart pounded rapidly and forcefully for some reason, as if it was ready to jump out of her chest, she felt her palms being covered with sweat. Lyanna fancied that she had managed to catch the outlandish southern bird she had been hunting for a long time, but the beast had easily pulled out of her grip and flew away, leaving Lyanna empty-handed.

“You’d better tell us, Howland, the news from the Greywater Watch,” Brandon said, sounding too forced. This conversation about fate and prophecies seemed to alert him too. Lyanna understood this from the way her brother had glanced at her anxiously.

Reed perked up, as if awakened from a long sleep, and started to talk about various everyday affairs: about a long winter, empty barns and difficult times for northerners. He had also told them about his intention to go to the Isle of Faces in order to take a look at this mysterious place with his own eyes. Brandon, hearing about this, only grunted and shook his head.

Along with the conversation, the tent came to life: Daisy smiled meekly, Lotha, septa Jenna and Albyn Snow had come from the outside, letting in a cold gust of wind. Lotha began to clean the table, Albyn joined the conversation between the other men, and septa made herself busy scolding Lyanna. Lyanna, however, was silent and listened only with half an ear, perceiving the voices around her, as the noise of a fast spring stream that sets off down the stones when the snow starts to melt. She glanced at her peas, which now, for sure, were no longer fit to be put into her mouth, and set the plate aside. She did not want to eat anyway, and the morning fun had disappeared somewhere, giving way to painful longing for something unknown.

Time had passed, and the Starks had to set off for their journey. Reed bowed, and Lyanna followed him out of the tent to say goodbye. Brandon looked at her displeasedly, but she nodded reassuringly to him, mouthing with only her lips that all was well.

“Goodbye, my lady,” Reed muttered. It seemed to Lyanna that now his eyes had become lighter and seemed no longer so bright.

“Goodbye, lord Reed,” she nodded. “I hope we will meet again.”

“You can be sure of that,” said lord of the Neck. “Good luck, Lyanna Stark.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna smiled. “And good luck to you as well”.

She was distracted for a moment, and when she looked again at the place where Reed was standing, he had already disappeared among the other travelers fussing around. Lyanna thought that his chestnut hair flashed at the very edge of the forest, but she could not be sure of it.

The wind died down after they had set off and the sky, although covered with a soft blanket of light clouds, did not send them any rain. Lyanna ordered to saddle Dayflower, deciding to ride today. Albyn Snow, as her ever faithful guard, was riding beside her, but Lyanna's thoughtfulness frightened him away, and he did not dare to start a conversation with her. She pulled forward soon, and Albyn chose to stay at a respectful distance. Lyanna wanted the swamps to end the sooner the better, then she would be able to wander the fields, send Dayflower into gallop and enjoy the fair ride, but the water forest went on and on along the edges of the road. It no longer seemed magical to Lyanna, but sinister, although it had not lost its alluring charm. The travelers scattered along the road, riding far behind or in front of Lyanna, only Albyn Snow loomed somewhere close, and she rode alone for a long time until Brandon overtook her.

“How do you like Howland?” He asked, slowing the horse into a step.

“He is very nice,” Lyanna answered distantly.

“I hope you did not attach much significance to his chatter about all these prophecies?” Brandon inquired deliberately sounding carefree. “Howland is a great fellow, but he loves to talk nonsense. I am sure father had sent him a raven with the news of us.”

“Of course, Brandon,” Lyanna agreed, although she didn’t think so herself, “do I look like someone who will believe all this?”

She knew that her brother was studying her carefully, but she did not turn to look at him, afraid to meet his gaze. Brandon only sighed and urged his horse back.

Only a few days later had they passed the border of the swamps and reached the Green Fork. Due to long rains, its waters were out, and the river seethed, taking them to the East, to merge with its brothers, turn into a single stream, and finally reach the Bay of Crabs. Lyanna regretted seeing these lands in winter when the rivers were dark and the trees were standing leafless, revealing their black trunks. There were no berries or flowers around, only grass, which was coloured from brown, to swamp green, to dirty yellow. There was no weirwood trees, the Old Gods of the North were left far behind, and Lyanna felt defenseless, as if their small company was abandoned all alone against the rest of the world.

The sky in the riverlands seemed higher than in the North, but clouds also covered it. Just for two short days the sun had shown itself to the travelers only to hide again, leaving them in the usual dank grayness. For the night they stayed in small village taverns and hotels, of which there were many along the Kingsroad. The owners were mostly friendly and simple people, and Lyanna enjoyed talking to them, amusing herself during dinner. She liked to listen to their stories about the past times, which surprisingly reminded Lyanna of the tales told by old Nan.

New impressions dispelled the sadness that had seized her, and Lyanna noticed that Brandon, who had previously looked worried, relaxed and stopped sending anxious glances her way. Surely, he decided that she had simply forgotten about lord Reed's words, but this was not so: Lyanna had just hid them in the farthest box of her memory in order to get them out when needed. Now she was fully occupied with exploring the lands that they passed. Perhaps someday, in many years, she will be able to travel all over Westeros or even go to Essos, but these had been only fruitless dreams so far.

Gloomy days dragged on for a long time and the road ran ahead of them, Lyanna fell asleep and woke up to the sound of river current. It would reach its destination a lot faster than she, to be sure. But as soon as this thought only crossed Lyanna’s mind, Albyn Snow announced:

“Nameless ford is just a few miles away; we will be crossing the Trident soon.”

“Why in so many years no one have ever come up with a name for the ford?” Lyanna asked.

“How do I know?” He shrugged. “This is probably not so simple.”

“Maybe you can come up with one?” Brandon shouted. “Lady Lianna's ford. What do you say? You just need to charm some bard so that he...”

“Stop it,” Lyanna rode up to her brother and hit him hard on the shoulder. “Stop clowning around, Brandon!”

Her brother burst out laughing, and Lyanna blushed. For some reason, she was always embarrassed when Brandon started such conversations, especially in the presence of strangers. Lyanna had only recently entered the age when young ladies should start thinking about handsome young men and become the objects of attention for the prospective suitors. She recalled the time when her brother Ned had brought his friend Robert Baratheon to Winterfell a few months ago. Eddard and the young lord of the Stormlands were fostered together at Jon Arryn’s castle Eyrie. She remembered how Lord Baratheon had studied her furtively, and her face turned even more crimson.

The waters of the Trident at the nameless ford were calm, and Lyanna thought that the sky was reflected in them. She stood and stared at the smooth surface, peering into the depths, but saw nothing but the clouds passing by. Finally, Brandon called out to her, and Lyanna, spurring on Dayflower, rushed after her companions. They were already nearing King’s Landing.

In the evening, they camped in the place where the Whitewalls used to stand, once dismantled by Brynden Rivers himself. Here its own story or legend lived on every patch of land, but nothing could have been compared in fame with the majestic castle of Harrenhall, and the next day Lyanna announced her desire to have a look at it. The Kingsroad passed quite far from the castle, but Lyanna, taking Albyn Snow with her, decided to go there on horseback, rejecting all of Brandon's objections.

“I promise,” she smiled, “I'll be back before nightfall, don’t fret, brother.”

“Has this meeting with Reed affected you so much?” Brandon snorted. “Maybe, now you want to sail to the Isle of Faces with him?”

“Don't be silly,” Lyanna dismissed. “We will not get close. When will I have another opportunity to take a glance at this castle, if I’m going to stay in King’s Landing without ever leaving it?”

Brandon nodded reluctantly, and Lyanna and Albyn rode along the shore of the Gods Eye lake, leaving him and their other companions. The green waters of the lake were quiet, they splashed off the coast gently, bringing a strange feeling of peace and security. Lyanna thought that the colour of the waters here reminded her of the colour of Howland Reed’s eyes. In the distance, the mysterious Isle of Faces was visible, alluring and frightening at the same time.

“Brandon was right in some way,” Lyanna said. “I would have liked to go there, because our Old Gods live on that island, whereas here, in the South, they have long had no place.”

“No way,” Albyn jerked his shoulders as if he was suddenly cold. “I don’t want to go there, and I won’t let you go alone.”

“I'm not going there right now,” Lyanna laughed.

“Well, that’s right, then” Albyn relaxed. “As for me, there’s nothing at all to do there. What if the green folk really lived on this island?”

“And wouldn't you be interested in looking at them?” Lyanna asked defiantly.

“Not a chance, my lady,” Albyn snorted.

A large bird, flapping its wings loudly, suddenly flew out of the crown of a nearby tree. Albyn cried out in fright and began to look around anxiously. Someone must have disturbed the bird, and perhaps it was them who had scared it off with their conversations, because rare travelers ever came here. Lyanna, whose heart, too, was suddenly stunned by surprise, laughed briskly.

“It's just a bird, Albyn.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not be afraid. Here the Old Gods protect us.”

Albyn did not answer: the Harrenhall Towers, fused with the fire of Balerion the Black Dread, loomed ahead. It seemed that the castle was very close, but in fact there was still about a day's journey ahead in order to reach it. It was so huge that even Winterfell seemed just a toy compared to it. Lyanna paused, looking at the crippled castle, which resembled a badly burnt, but still alive, man. The same painful longing that she felt during her conversation with Reed had found her again, and she squeezed the clasp of her cloak involuntarily. A silver direwolf thrust into her hand, but she seemed not to feel it.

“I don’t understand what’s so interesting here,” Albyn complained loudly. “Come on, my lady. You promised your brother to come back before nightfall. If we are late, he will cut my head off.”

“You're right, let's go.”

Lyanna squeezed the reins and hit Dayflower on the sides, letting her into jog. Lyanna experienced a sudden desire to leave this place, she wanted this strange feeling to disappear, to let her be, but it seemed to bite into her very soul not wanting to let go, no matter how much Lyanna tried to get rid of it. However, returning to her brother, she pretended to be satisfied, and he, it seemed, did not suspect anything. All night, Lyanna tossed and turned on the pillows, which smelled of dampness and cold. She tried to sleep, but the slumber had only embraced her in the morning, black and heavy. She slept so soundly as if she was dead.

The rest of the journey through the Crownlands had passed rather quickly and, finally, they had entered King’s Landing through the Dragon Gate. The stone lizards, looked at them, gnashing their teeth. Judging by his tense features, Albyn clearly did not like them, Brandon barely gave them a short glance, but Lyanna gazed at the dragons with admiration. Whatever people say, they were beautiful and graceful creatures, Lyanna wished that they had not died out long before her birth, as now she would be only able to see their skulls in the throne room of the Red Keep.

She was so carried away by looking at the stone monsters that she did not notice her brother coming to a halt, and when she did, she froze right beside him, pulling Dayflower’s reins towards herself. Turning to find out the reason for their sudden stop, Lyanna fixed her gaze on the tall silver-haired young man who sat on a silver-black horse. It was a horse of rare colour: its skin was black as tar, but pure silver sparkled in its mane and tail. Behind the young man stood several riders, apparently his escort, and next to him was a knight in white armour – his features were the exact opposite to the young man’s. Could that be the famous dornishman ser Arthur Dayne? Lyanna tried to discern his family sword Dawn behind his right shoulder.

“My lord, my lady,” the young man bowed his head. He looked first at Brandon, and then at Lyanna, and she was barely able to hold the gaze of his deep indigo eyes. A serious expression froze on his face, and the corners of his lips did not jerk up even out of courtesy. “I am Rhaegar Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone. Allow me to offer you the warmest welcome and escort you to the castle.”

“It is an honour, Your Highness,” Brandon replied. Lyanna just bowed her head.

The prince and his men turned the horses around, and the whole procession moved on. Lyanna did not notice how that had happened, but suddenly Brandon had moved to the front and now rode next to the knight in white armor, and the crown prince appeared beside her. She was throwing glances at him without turning her head, but he looked straight and seemed to pay no attention to her. It was not necessary for Rhaegar Targaryen to introduce himself; it was impossible not to recognize him. No wonder he was known as the most handsome man in all Seven Kingdoms. The prince was lean, but at the same time elegant, he could not be called weak, even though he did not possess the brutal masculine strength, but apparently, he was fluid and, most likely, successful in battle.

Carried away by studying him, Lyanna did not notice when Rhaegar Targaryen had turned to her, and their eyes met again. Lyanna, realizing that she was caught during a rather shameful occupation, blushed. The prince said nothing, but instead, Lyanna was demonstrated that he knew how to smile. His smile was light, barely noticeable, but sincere, and it made the prince look even more handsome. Lyanna wanted to talk to him about something, but her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth and did not want to obey its owner. It seemed that the prince was in possession of some kind of valyrian magic, since the well-known chatterbox Lyanna Stark was so suddenly unable to utter the simplest word.

In the courtyard of the Red Keep, she and Brandon were introduced to Queen Rhaella, whose lady in waiting Lyanna was to become, and Princess Cersei. The Queen turned out to look a lot like her son, equally magnificent, but serious with a veil of sadness on her beautiful face. The Princess smiled sweetly, and Lyanna was convinced that she was called a great beauty not in vain. It did not hide from Lyanna that the Princess kept her hands on her slightly rounded belly. Having talked with the guests exactly as much as decency required, the Princess retired. Queen Rhaella inquired about their journey, about the affairs at home, and only after that allowed them to withdraw.

“Well, here we are in the dragon's den,” Brandon whispered in her ear as they followed the servants away from the keep courtyard to their new rooms.

Before leaving, Lyanna glanced back. Rhaegar Targaryen, standing next to his mother, was watching her closely.


	10. Arthur III

Arthur Dayne had never favoured those days when it was his turn to guard the King. He liked the time he spent guarding Prince Rhaegar or the Queen much more. As for Princess Cersei he considered her too arrogant and not too sensible. She, like the King himself, did not distinguish the kingsguards and other servants from the surrounding furniture and it was seldom when she honoured any of them with more than a nod. The Princess was never able to gain Dayne’s favour, Arthur, however, did not share his opinion even with Rhaegar, hoping that motherhood would have a beneficial effect on the Princess. It should, however, be acknowledged that Cersei, with all her vanity, could not in any case be compared to King Aerys and his demonstrative executions, which caused Dayne to feel extremely disgusted. In all this, Arthur always saw the vile irony, because he wholeheartedly despised the very person whom he had sworn to protect even at the cost of his own life.

Now the whole royal family and court were assembled in the throne room: Aerys administered king’s justice and this time he wanted to show it to everyone, even his good daughter, who was carrying a child. Arthur had witnessed himself how angry Rhaegar was when he had first found out about this, but the Princess volunteered to go, which made her husband unusually sad. Dayne had long noticed that Cersei, having understood, apparently, the balance of power at court, was trying to find an approach to reach to the King. So far, however, she did not succeed too well, because hatred for her father won over Aerys’ former love for her mother, and if the King ever called the Prince and his wife to him, then it was only to show them their place once again. Rhaegar, tired of all this, wanted to leave the capital and sail to Dragonstone. Cersei, however, gritted her teeth, endured the King’s insults, and firmly declared that she would remain in King’s Landing. The prince had never spoken to his friend about any of this, but the servants only twittered about Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife having a great fight, and judging by the fact that both of them were still in the capital, the Prince had eventually yielded to the requests of Princess Cersei.

Now the Princess was seated at the foot of the Iron Throne next to her husband, a condescending and gracious expression was imprinted on her face, which, perhaps, only the Mad King himself could share. Rhaegar was his usual serious self, and Queen Rhaella seemed scared. In agitation, she had squeezed the small hand of Prince Viserys, who seemed to perceive what was happening as another game. Arthur himself had long learned to pretend to be the exact furniture that the King preferred to consider him. His face did not give away anything at all, and Dayne sometimes thought that with such an expression he looked like the Stranger himself.

The King clapped his hands loudly, and a frightened silence filled the throne room. The members of the court turned towards the throne almost in unison. Arthur was sure that most of these people rejoice at being only the spectators, and not active participants in the horrible amusements of the King. The horn trumped, and the heavy doors of the throne room swung open.

“Let the royal justice begin!” the herald proclaimed. “May our King be fair, as ordered by the Seven!”

Arthur grinned to himself. Justice in King's Landing had long been forgotten, and the Seven, whose names were mentioned without any meaning all too often, must also have been bribed by sinners. No punishment of heaven fell upon the ungodly, even if they continued to sin heavily.

“Look, princess!” The King cried out suddenly, interrupting the herald's solemn speech. “Watch and listen to what you see. You carry the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, the one who will someday sit on this iron chair and decide the fate of others. Do not repeat my wife’s mistakes,” Aerys glanced contemptuously at Rhaella, “you must make him strong, stronger than his weakling father, a real dragon, not a shy lizard! After all, there should be something in you from your mother, other than a pretty face, huh? Look, what a true dragon should do! Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Princess Cersei bowed her head dutifully, and then cast a reverent glance at the King. The King, however, had already turned his back to her by this time, and her impulse was all in vain.

Arthur looked at Queen Rhaella, who remained calm only by miracle, and then caught Rhaegar’s eye. Fire was burning in the Prince's indigo eyes, Arthur wanted to give him some sign, but decided against it, afraid of being noticed by the King. Coward, the same coward as everyone else, who secretly despised the King, but did not dare to take action. For every person there was something, which stopped him: be it vows, family ties, or ordinary fear for his own head.

Turning his head slightly to the side, Arthur caught the sight of the master of whisperers, who studied him carefully. Varys’ narrow eyes seemed unreadable to Dayne, and the eunuch had only shaken his head in disappointment. Apparently, he was not pleased with Arthur’s failure with Prince Rhaegar and hinted at how things could have been different. Several months had already passed since that long conversation, and Varys was absent from court for some time and had never appeared in Dayne’s small chamber again. As for Arthur, he did not raise this topic with Rhaegar again, as it turned out to be too painful for the Prince.

Varys’ whereabouts during these few weeks, were known only to himself, and probably also to the King. The affairs of master of whisperers were always covered with a thick layer of cobwebs. Maybe he had let loose some of his new birds, and maybe he was doing something else. Arthur remembered how the King sent Lucerys Velaryon to the Free Cities several years ago when rumors had it that the three dragon eggs, stolen by Elissa Farman, had surfaced there, being in possession of an unknown merchant. The master of ships had returned from that trip with nothing, but the King most likely had never gave up hope of finding the long-lost relics.

Meanwhile, the first accused was already standing in front of the throne. Arthur recognized him almost immediately: ser Ilyn Payne – Tywin Lannister's vassal, who remained in King’s Landing among the small entourage of Princess Cersei.

“What crime is this knight accused of?” Asked the new Hand of the King Owen Merryweather – a miserable old man who’s only occupation was never-ending feasts and pretentious praises to King Aerys.

“Slander, my lord Hand,” the captain of the gold cloaks reported.

“What kind of slander, ser?” The Hand continued interrogation.

Arthur noticed that Aerys squirmed on the throne nervously. Probably, it seemed to him that the interrogation, which was just a mere formality, lasted too long, and he wanted to pass the verdict sooner. The Mad King adored the moments when he, with his punishing hand, ruled the fate of the people, noble lords and poor common folk equally. Judging by his face, he imagined that the Seven themselves inhabited his body, and he was only their weapon.

“My men had heard themselves,” the captain of the gold cloaks cleared his throat, as if he was afraid to say these words out loud, “as this man said that Tywin Lannister was the true ruler of the country, and now, when he has left for Casterly Rock, there’s no one left to rule.”

Glancing towards the Iron Throne, the captain turned pale, expecting that even for retelling this sedition, a sword would pierce him immediately. Arthur did not envy this poor fellow at all.

“What ...” Merryweather began but did not manage to finish.

“Cut off the tongue of this slanderer!” The King cried. “Hang it on his filthy neck and send him to his precious lord as a token of my mercy! Do you agree, Rhaegar?”

Arthur froze. No wonder Aerys had assembled the whole royal family here today. It seemed that he was not going to leave the Prince and his wife alone.

“I would ask the accused himself, Your Grace,” Rhaegar said calmly, raising his eyes to his father. “I suppose that was the exact intention of my lord Hand. If ser Ilyin denies the accusations, we will have his word against the word of one of the gold cloaks. It would be wrong to pass a sentence based on such a small evidence. Words could be misinterpreted. In any case, sir Ilyn has the right to ask for a trial by combat.”

Merryweather turned pale and cringed, hearing the Prince mention his name, a nervous sweat had built up on his forehead, and he constantly wiped it with a lace scented handkerchief. It was clear that he was not going to insist on continuing the interrogation.

_Cowards_ , Arthur thought. _Miserable cowards_.

“And what do you say, princess?” The King asked sternly.

“I say that the country is ruled by Aerys of the house Targaryen, the second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” she said quietly, raising her head and looking directly at the King. Something flashed dangerously in her bright green eyes.

“Cut off his tongue,” Aerys uttered, waving his hand visibly bored, as if all that business had completely ceased to interest him. Arthur managed to notice that a thin scarlet brook ran along the King’s pale palm, which meant that Aerys had again cut himself on the sharp edges of the swords, from which the Iron Throne was once forged. Many said that in such a way the throne rejected the unworthy ruler, and that it had even killed Maegor the Cruel. Arthur did not believe in such tales, but now, looking at the crazy old man, who was the fully legitimate king of Westeros, even the Sword of the Morning saw some sense in these old tales.

It was impossible to enforce the sentence right on the spot, as no one was allowed to carry weapons in the presence of the King with the only exception of the white cloaks. This ban also extended to the executioner, and even the Crown Prince was forced to disarm before being allowed into the throne room. So, Merryweather only asked ser Ilyn if he wished to pronounce any last statement or plea. At that Aerys had laughed, and ser Ilyn just shook his head. The guards twisted his arms behind his back and led him away, but already at the very door he found the strength to turn around, and his black, deep-set eyes looked directly at Princess Cersei.

After that, the culprits followed one after another: the townsfolk, merchants, owners of taverns and shops, knights and foreign pirates. Aerys judged fast, not going deep into the details. He did not like disputes and litigations, and Arthur had discovered long ago that the King had always resolved all conflicts in favor of the one who flattered him most or was prettier in the face and form. The King did nothing unusual that day, and Arthur started observing the Princess involuntarily. Noticing how she wrinkled her forehead in discontent, he thought that in her heart she condemned all what was happening, but soon he realized, that her disapproval was caused by another reason. It was unpleasant for her to look at the poor, tattered rags frightened her, and the smell that reached her made her stick her nose into a perfumed handkerchief.

Arthur grinned bitterly. Aerys exuded the smell unlikely more pleasant, but not a single maiden in court would have dared to wrinkle her elegant little nose. No one would ever admit that the unwashed body stinks equally nasty, whether it belongs to the king or the ragged from the Flea Bottom.

“What is this boy accused of?” The Hand repeated once again.

A child stood in front of the throne, dirty, with a bush of black matted hair, resembling a bird's nest. But what had struck Arthur even more was the boy’s missing right hand.

“Theft, my lord,” the captain of the city watch rapped out.

“From whom did he steal?” The Hand asked.

“From Vayon Lahm, my lord, he keeps a bakery on the Street of the Sisters.”

Dayne thought that no one had even asked the boy’s name, his fate was already decided.

“Have a look at him,” Merryweather shook his head. “This is not the first time we catch him. It is your word now, Your Grace, what punishment should we apply?”

“I'll ask the Princess,” Aerys grinned. “Today she has already proved herself to be sensible. Well, princess, what have you learned? What shall we do with him?”

“You have to cut off his hand for theft,” Cersei said. Arthur was struck when he noticed that the fear of Aerys had disappeared from her eyes. This girl was incredibly stupid if she had already imagined herself a trusted adviser to the King. She was unable to perceive that Aerys only wished to taunt her and her husband. Rhaegar had also looked at his wife, and anger and unavoidable doom had mixed in his indigo gaze.

“You're right, girl,” Aerys agreed. “But it is unlucky, that he already has one hand missing.”

“In that case, chop off the second one,” the Princess said firmly, and not a single muscle twitched on her face. “Then he will certainly never steal anything again.”

Did she say that out of fear of opposing the King, or did she want to please him, to feign herself to be the way Aerys would like her to be? Did she just pretend, or did she really think so? Sooner or later a princess would turn into a queen, and much more would depend on her than it was now.

“Good,” the King croaked. “Very well. But the fire is best of all. It will cleanse the wrongdoer from filth and sinfulness, burn the vice from any sinner. A person who has committed theft once is punished by cutting off his hand, but if he dares to venture a similar crime again, it means that the sin has already firmly rooted and must be cleaned out by fire!”

Aerys giggled and, choking on his own laughter, fell into a fit of cough. Rhaegar twitched, but Princess Cersei laid her hand on his shoulder, and pressed her free hand to her belly in a protective gesture. The Prince's shoulders dropped slightly, and he remained seated in his place.

A pyromancer Rossart slipped out of a dark corner like a mouse, he was a member of the Alchemists’ Guild and Aerys' beloved confidant. He smiled faintly and was silent. Rossart spoke little at all, he only dutifully set fire to people for the King’s fun. This man was unpredictable and dangerous, like the art that he was engaged in. No matter how much Arthur tried to read him, Dayne had never succeed.

The little thief didn’t even have time to come to his senses, as the guards had hung him on a certain construction, which resembled a rack by it looks. This tool, like many other tools and machines for the sophisticated torture and punishment, was brought to King’s Landing from Tyrosh. The artisans there were skilled in truly everything and did not disdain any work.

The boy did not scream and did not ask for mercy. He stared at the crowd with horror, and this look of a frightened child had accused everyone, who was now present in the throne room. Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then followed his usual ritual: he turned his gaze to the members of the court. He didn’t want to watch, the sounds and smell would be enough, the King’s laughter and the silence of all assembled would tell him everything.

Creak of wood, rustle of ropes, heavy panting. Crackling fire. And suddenly, in the midst of all this, there was a woman’s cry. Arthur turned his head to the sound, but he could not make out the source of the outbreak among the crowd. He hoped that the others were unable to notice this person either, the King and his Hand at the very least.

“Who does not agree with the decision of the King?” Aerys asked dangerously, but only submissive silence served as an answer for him.

No matter how brave a person might be, being burnt alive, he starts to scream sooner or later all the same. It was impossible to get used to the wailing, each time it tore your head apart again and again, penetrated inside and chased everyone who was unlucky enough to witness it. Dozens of victims of the royal madness visited Arthur at nights, accusing him for not saving them, and Dayne begged them for forgiveness on his knees. He saw Queen Rhaella close Prince Viserys’ eyes and ears, pressing his face to her chest, he saw Prince Rhaegar’s tightly pressed lips, the King’s joyful smile and Princess Cersei’s eyes, open in admiration, the wild fire was set free deep inside them.

When Arthur left the throne room following the King and his retinue, he was stopped by Prince Rhaegar.

“What do you say to the couple of hours of good sparring?” He asked.

Arthur glanced to ser Herold who walked next to him, the lord commander only nodded, releasing Dayne to go with the Crown Prince.

“I am at your disposal, my prince,” Arthur spread his hands.

“Then wait for me in the yard,” Rhaegar nodded. “I'll just take some time to change.”

Dayne, legging behind the main crowd that now flowed out of the throne room like a stormy river, moved slowly towards the exit to the western courtyard, where knights and squires usually trained. The Prince must have been really upset, since he had offered the sparring at an inopportune time on his own goodwill. Sometimes even this person, full of deep melancholy, needed to let off the steam from the fire blazing inside him, no matter what everybody said, Rhaegar was still a dragon after all.

The river slowly vanished, and the last steps subsided in the distance. Silence filled the gallery, which lead outside, and was suddenly broken to Arthur's surprise by someone's quiet conversation.

“I'm sorry,” a female voice whispered. “It happened by chance, but I just could not restrain myself. It was so awful!”

“I know,” a man answered. “But you should have better control over yourself. What if the King had noticed you? Think of our father, of our brothers! What will become of them when you are burned at the stake of the Mad King?”

“May the Old Gods help us!” The girl exclaimed. “He is a terrible man, worse than they speak of him!”

Arthur decided that he, and, perhaps, not only he, had already heard enough. Approaching this couple hiding in the alcove, he indicated his presence with a polite cough. Starks, as he had immediately recognized them by the mentioning of the Old Gods, both winced and stared at him defiantly. It was to be expected that they did not trust the servant of the Mad King, although he remembered that at their first meeting Lady Lyanna had stared at him with awe.

“My lord, my lady,” Arthur bowed.

“Ser Arthur,” Lord Brandon said in suspicion. The poor man was so simple, like his sister. All their feelings and intentions were written on their faces. Arthur had never met the northerners before, for they rarely appeared in the capital or in the southern kingdoms. By their character, they reminded him of the ice that their homeland was so rich of – pure and hard, but the southern sun will be destructive for it, melting it with its hot rays.

“I’ve accidentally overheard what you were talking about,” Dayne confessed bluntly. He noticed a veinlet twitch on lord Brandon's face, as Stark grabbed the hand of his sister, who had pressed herself tightly against him. Noble impulse, but absolutely meaningless. Arthur sighed. At that moment, he thought of his own sisters, and sympathy to the man filled his heart. “You need not worry,” he laid a hand on lord Stark’s shoulder, “I am not your enemy, so I hope you will let me give you one piece of advice. Remain silent. Remain silent, and try to stay away, hide deeper. Even the walls, especially near the throne room, have ears.”

Arthur saw that Brandon Stark was no longer looking at him, but somewhere behind him, Stark’s face was still firm, as if carved from stone, and his body was tense, as if he really was a wolf, that was ready to rush at the hunter, who pursued its pack at any moment. _Brave man_ , Dayne thought. _But this courage will destroy him sooner or later if he does not learn how to keep it under control._ Arthur turned to look what had attracted the attention of lord Stark and came face to face with Prince Rhaegar. His silver hair was tucked at the back of his head in a ponytail, he wore gloves and donned a black coarse leather vest he usually put on for training.

“They say,” the Prince began, nodding to the Starks, “that the rats in the walls of this castle listen to the secrets of its inhabitants, and carry them on.”

“Is it really true?” Lady Lyanna was sincerely surprised.

“I read about it in the books by the reputable maesters,” the Prince answered.

“Whether it is rats indeed or someone who can walk on two legs, I beg you to be careful,” Arthur said softly.

Brandon Stark continued to stare at the Prince and his guard with obvious distrust. It seemed that he did not believe anyone in this castle, except for himself and those whom he brought with him from the North. Lady Lyanna looked at Arthur, although a little wary, but still with gratitude, she modestly smiled at him and the Prince, and Dayne could not help but notice how her eyes drifted to his right shoulder, from where the silver hilt of Dawn stuck out.

“Thank you, ser,” she said, taking her brother’s arm, lord Stark it seemed, didn’t fully share her feelings. “My prince.”

The Starks withdrew, and Arthur turned to Rhaegar.

“I feel sorry for them,” Dayne shook his head. “It will be tough for them here.”

“Yes,” the Prince said thoughtfully, and Arthur noticed that Rhaegar was not looking at him. “My mother likes lady Lyanna. The Queen says she is like the fresh wind, which had been long missing from her musty chambers.”

“Come on,” Dayne moved forward, urging the Prince to follow him. He preferred not to speak of the Starks anymore. “How do you feel, Rhaegar? You do not look well, and I’m not eager to race you around the training yard.”

“I ask you not to spare me, my friend,” the Prince put his hand on Arthur's shoulder. “That will only offend me. Do you think I did the right thing today?” Rhaegar asked, uneasiness passed through his voice like the cold winter wind. Arthur knew that the Prince was still in doubt.

“Yes,” Dayne nodded and looked at his friend. “I regret that I could not have done the same.”

“My wife would not agree with you,” Rhaegar grinned gloomily, and instead of a smile his lips formed a grimace that distorted his beautiful face.

The prince said nothing more, but Arthur understood everything without words. Cersei had, probably, accused her husband that Rhaegar had turned the King against them and their unborn child with his objections. The Prince, having taken his vows in the Great Sept of Baelor, had sworn to protect his wife, and she had urged him to do so as she saw fit.

“Your wife is mistaken,” Arthur said. Rhaegar said nothing. A shadow of heavy thoughts, which must have overcome him suddenly, fell on his forehead. Dayne really wanted to ask the Prince what was going on inside his head, but the knight did not dare, suspecting that Rhaegar would not reveal anything anyway.

They went out into the courtyard, and daylight, which seemed too bright to Arthur after the twilight of the castle corridors, hit their eyes. Arthur called Willan, his squire, ordering him to bring training swords for the Prince and himself. Bowing obediently, the boy promptly ran away to fulfill the errand.

“I have strange dreams, Arthur,” the Prince suddenly said. Dayne, alarmed by this unexpected confession, looked around. There was no one near them, only ser Oswell Went and master-at-arms of the Red Keep Willem Darry had crossed their swords a small distance away.

“What kind of dreams?” Arthur asked.

“I wander through the dark stone corridors alone and it seems that I’m searching for something,” Rhaegar whispered excitedly, and Arthur noticed his eyes sparkle. “I know it's somewhere close, but I just can't find it. In the mornings, no matter how I try, I can’t even remember what I’m looking for, only these endless corridors.”

“Maybe these are ordinary nightmares?” Dayne suggested. “You’re tired, there was a lot on your shoulders lately.”

“No,” Rhaegar objected fervently, “these are not usual dreams. They seem so real and repeat every night. I am sure they come for a good reason.”

“And what do you think they mean?” Arthur asked, abandoning attempts to convince the Prince to be rational.

“I think,” the Prince's quiet voice sounded almost solemnly. “The prophecy will soon be fulfilled, and I will get the one I have been waiting for so long.”


	11. Lyanna II

The sun pleased the citizens of King’s Landing with its warm rays for the first time in many days. The red stone of the major castle of the capital played with new colors now, like the whole surrounding city. It seemed that a heap of expensive tyroshi paints had been poured onto the gray capital, and now it has blossomed with all the colours of the rainbow. The sun offered a pleasant, caressing warmth to a pale skin, bitten by cold winds, and even the air seemed fresh to Lyanna. Was it possible that the spring was really coming?

In the western courtyard, the knights of the Kingsguard and others from among those who lived at court trained as was their custom. The clanking of blades and the cries of men formed a fun song that the young Stark girl liked. In the distance, Lyanna had noticed her brother Brandon paired with Albyn Snow. The bastard was fast and cunning, and her brother was too furious, straight and bold, not bothering to hide his intentions, and Albyn had dodged his blows with natural ease. Snow had managed to outwit Stark without much effort, and his sword was often pointed at Brandon's neck. Looking at this, Lyanna had only shook her head, her brother had a lot of strength and rage, but he absolutely did not know how to give them direction, only thoughtlessly rained it down on the enemy.

Lyanna regretted that she could not wield a sword herself, but it was only in Winterfell that she could easily appear in the training yard and start a spar with Benjen. Here, where no one could be trusted, she would never take such a risk, no matter how great her desire was. Lyanna was content only with the opportunity to spend her short free time watching the knights famous in all the Seven Kingdoms. Still at home, when her father did not allow her to train with her brothers, she learned to watch carefully and memorize. So now, going to the godswood in the evenings, she not only prayed there, but also practiced the techniques she had seen in the morning, and the Old Gods served as her only audience. Sometimes, she laughed with herself, imagining what expressions the knights’ faces would have, if they suddenly caught her, reddened, with disheveled hair, brandishing a wooden sword.

It seemed that they were already used to her frequent presence at the training yard. Ser Barristan Selmy – noble and honourable – always bowed and greeted her courteously. Ser Lewyn Martell frowned, probably believing that a decent girl did not belong here. Jonothor Darry shot her a hard look, and barely honoured her with his attention. Lord Commander ser Gerold Hightower looked at her almost paternally and was ready to answer any of her questions produced by her curiosity. Old ser Harlan Grandison kissed her hand politely and smiled, and ser Oswell Whent, winking slyly, inquired if she had fallen in love with any of the guards.

“You know, lady Lyanna, that we have sworn a vow,” he often said, trying to appear deadly serious, “but any of us will be ready to break it for such a beautiful northern flower like you.”

At first, Lyanna was horrified upon hearing this and blushed heavily until she realized that ser Oswell was just joking.

“You flatter me, ser Oswell,” she answered him, “but I haven’t yet decided who is the worthiest to have my heart as I’m forced to choose among the most valiant knights of the Seven Kingdoms. If you defeat all your brothers in arms in a fair combat, it may so happen that I will choose you.”

“This is most unfair, my lady,” Whent objected with mock resentment, “because ser Arthur Dayne himself is among us, and defeating him is not a simple matter, it can even be, I would say, fatal. Believe me, I had witnessed him in a real battle.”

Ser Arthur appeared in the courtyard almost every time in the company of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. And today was no exception, they had arrived together, squinting from the unusually bright sunshine, their training swords gleaming in its rays. Having acknowledged her presence, the Prince bowed his head slightly as usual and smiled softly. Lyanna had rarely seen him outside the training yard but managed to notice that Rhaegar Targaryen was scant on smiles, but he seemed to always have one in store for her and offered it as a greeting. Perhaps that was why ser Arthur Dayne looked so strange, moving his gaze from her to the Prince. Usually, he chose to stay silent, but today he whispered something in the Prince’s ear. Both of them had looked up at Lyanna after that, the Prince smiled again and shook his head.

Their swords crossed, and the sun began to play on the blades, starting to dance in the same rhythm with Rhaegar Targaryen and Arthur Dayne. Lyanna had already been made sure that she had been right when she had attributed the fighting success of the Prince to his swiftness and dexterity. He was quite tall, but willowy and nimble, he watched the enemy carefully, calculating his every move. Their fight with Dayne resembled a skillful dance performed by the best dancers in the world. If the Prince was ever to engage in a real combat with Brandon, her brother would have no chance. Ser Arthur, however, was the most difficult opponent, perhaps, among all the knights of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Prince rarely succeeded in defeating the Sword of the Morning. If Dayne was ever defeated, then Lyanna was almost sure that it happened only because he succumbed to the Prince on purpose.

Lyanna's gaze travelled further to the place where the squires of Rhaegar Targaryen and Arthur Dayne sat on the large wooden chumps. The first one had nothing to do and occupied himself with drawing the bizarre shapes on the sand with a toecap, while the second was busy polishing Dawn, which glimmered in the sun like a jewel. The boys were of little interest to Lyanna, for she looked all eyes at the legendary white sword. For a couple of weeks, she wanted to ask ser Arthur to try and hold it but did not dare to disturb the guard with such a strange and, probably, stupid request.

“Beautiful, huh?” Lyanna heard a voice behind her.

Inexplicably frightened, she turned around and saw Princess Cersei standing next to her. Her baby was due very soon, however, Princess’s state did not spoil her beauty. Her golden hair still resembled silk, her eyes sparkled with emeralds, and a healthy glow shone on her cheeks. Compared to the Princess, Lyanna seemed to herself no better than one of the wildlings who lived far in the North, beyond the Wall.

“Yes, Your Highness, beautiful indeed,” Lyanna agreed, still not taking her eyes off Dawn.

“It is not for nothing, that he is considered the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms,” the Princess said proudly, and the emeralds in her eyes sparkled even brighter.

“I beg pardon,” Lyanna was embarrassed, “I was talking about a sword, about Dawn. I watched how beautiful it shines in the sun, as if it was not made of metal, but of a rare gem. I have never seen such a wonderful weapon.”

“And I was referring to Prince Rhaegar,” Princess Cersei laughed, shutting her ears to Lyanna's confused praise. “I think, you can still agree with my statement, when you are aware what I’ve really meant.”

“Yes,” Lyanna nodded uncertainly and averted her eyes. Sneakily, she glanced at the Prince: he was flushed from the exercise, and his unruly hair poked out of the ponytail at the top of his head. For some reason, it suddenly felt unpleasant to Lyanna to answer the Princess's question, although she did not even understand what could have been wrong. “Of course, they say that about him for a good reason.”

“I pray to the Seven that my son would take after his father,” Princess Cersei pressed a hand to her belly.

“I hope the Gods will hear your prayers,” Lyanna said politely. Maybe it was due to the hot rays of the sun, the tight-laced corset or the heavy aroma of the rose water that stretched after the Princess in a thick trail, but Lyanna suddenly felt unbearably out of breath. “I apologize, Your Highness,” she dropped a curtsy, “but the Queen is waiting for me. If you allow me.”

“I’ll see you, lady Lyanna,” the Princess uttered, as if she had already lost interest in the little northern lady in waiting. Leaving, Lyanna saw that Prince Rhaegar and ser Arthur had lowered their swords, the Princess waved at her husband, and he answered her with only a polite nod. Even the shadow of a smile did not touch his lips, and after noticing this Lyanna felt her chest tightening even more.

Lyanna wanted to rush into a run, but she could not afford it without collecting curious and judgmental glances. She should think about her father, about the honour and well-being of her family, she could not let her house down by her own stupidity. Lyanna's cheeks flushed either from the heat, or from something else. For sure, this notorious wolf blood, of which Lord Rickard Stark used to talk a lot, was boiling inside her. Lyanna slowed down and stopped in the shade, her hands reached for a lacing that strangled her body, but it was impossible to loosen it now. She pressed her hand to her chest and took a few deep breaths: it made her breathing a little easier. She touched her face with the tips of her fingers: her cheeks were still burning, not wanting to fade.

Before heading to the Queen, Lyanna decided to look into her chambers in the Maidenvault, where she asked Lotha – her maid – to loosen the dress a little and freshened her face with cold water. Flashing brightly in the sun, the mirror, which stood on a table by the window had beckoned her, but Lyanna did not want to glance into it and see once again her elongated pale face with cheekbones too sharp and cheeks hollow. She heard how it was repeatedly said about her wild beauty, but now she did not find anything beautiful in herself. If ever asked, she would never be able to tell, why she had suddenly started to care so much about her looks.

Taking deep breath and biting her lips in order to make them seem brighter, Lyanna hastened to the Maegor's Holdfast. She had never enjoyed the passage via a drawbridge spanning a dry moat, lined with the bed of formidable iron spikes. As soon as she looked down on them, she felt dizzy, and Lyanna was constantly afraid that she would fall on their fatal warheads. Today, ser Jonothor Darry greeted her on the other side of the bridge. As always, he said nothing, and Lyanna was welcomed with only a dry nod, but now it did not bother her too much. She acknowledged ser Jonothor with a greeting unlikely more friendly and headed for the queen.

The entire Red Keep, and the Maegor's Holdfast, where the royal family dwelled, in particular, seemed rather gloomy places to Lyanna, it seemed that the Doom, which had once destroyed old Valyria, hung over them like a dark thundercloud. King Aerys ruled the Seven Kingdoms like an evil wizard from fairy tales that she had heard as a child, Queen Rhaella seemed to have long lost all the taste for life and woke up in the mornings only because she was so used to it. It was rumored that the King was very rude to her, but in her conversations with the court ladies she preferred not to mention her husband even briefly. The Queen’s face brightened only when she talked about her sons, but not for long even then, as being locked in Maegor’s Holdfast, she hardly ever saw them.

Entering the Queen's boudoir, Lyanna bowed and sat down in a lovely chair upholstered with soft satin. The two septas that sat on both sides of Rhaella like two watchtowers gave her sour glances, the other ladies smiled, and Lyanna tried in vain to understand how many smiles were sincere. She bit her lip, trying to behave as she perceived befitting a grandlord's daughter, but in that she was not utterly successful.

Some of the girls occupied themselves with needlework. Once Lyanna had already tried to join them but had only jabbed all her fingers and caused the Queen to smile condescendingly. Now she preferred not to give the more skillful ladies a reason for ridicule anymore. She was generally silent for the most part, fearing that she would say something inappropriate, and spoke only when any of them addressed her directly. At court it was gossiped a lot about her wolf blood, and many ladies could not restrain themselves, wanting to arouse her wild temper for their fun.

“We have just discussed what a lovely day it is, lady Lyanna,” the Queen smiled. “Is it not?”

“Yes, indeed, such days are very rare in winter,” Lyanna agreed.

“They probably don't ever happen in the North,” said Joss Rosby, who occupied the place closest to Rhaella.

“What makes you think so?” Lyanna objected softly. “We have sunny days in Winterfell. The snow sparkles in the bright rays, as if it were not just frozen water, but real diamonds.”

“Here, in the Crownlands, if it ever snows, the ground just turns into wet mud,” the Queen complained.

“And if you ever try and venture outside,” snorted Helena Mallister, a girl from the riverlands. “The hem of your dress will immediately get a lovely dirty trim made of mud,” she giggled, finding her joke very funny.

“Women's clothing is very uncomfortable to be sure,” Alyssa Lonmouth complained, following the joke. She was the older sister of the Prince’s squire.

“And you, lady Lyanna, what do you say?” Lady Helena asked, sipping her tea gracefully.

“You're right,” Lyanna startled a little surprised. She had already forgotten that she was not only an observer here. “If women were only allowed to wear outfits designed for men and wield weapons, everyone would feel much better.”

A flood of loud laughter filled the Queen’s boudoir.

“Does the glory of Jonquil Darke haunt you?” Lady Alyssa said through the wild fit of laughter. “Perhaps you, Your Grace, should make our dear lady Lyanna your personal queensguard.”

Lyanna's cheeks were flooded with a thick blush, and she felt them blaze with wildfire. Surely, everyone else had noticed her confusion. Lyanna wanted to stand up and leave at once, without even explaining anything to anyone.

“It's not up to the young maiden to say such things,” one of the royal septas shook her head. Her never-changing sour look incinerated Lyanna with fierce condemnation.

“Enough, ladies,” the Queen objected, smiling softly. “Lady Lyanna wished to make a joke, but you could not understand a good pun,” she tilted her head and looked at Lyanna carefully, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes,” Lyanna nodded obediently, “it was just a joke.”

“We have never known what a funny-girl you are,” lady Joss concluded. “As you can see, your joke impressed us.”

“Well, I'm very glad,” Lyanna said, sending the Queen a gaze full of gratitude.

The conversation went on, dull and aimless, it wandered round and round like a mill wheel. Lyanna was horrified that the whole days of women assembled here consisted of such useless blather. They did not solve anything, did not learn anything new, except for fresh gossip, and occupied themselves only with a discussion of clothes, court rumors and their acquaintances. Lyanna had even caught herself thinking that she would better listen to septa Jenna’s notations and Daisy’s incoherent chatter, but now she rarely saw them, busy with her new duties. It seemed to Lyanna that it was just as little fun for the Queen, but for some reason Rhaella was silent, leaving the wheel to spin further on.

The ladies withdrew soon after lunch, but Lyanna, at the request of Queen Rhaella, remained to read to her, and was finally free only in the evening. Returning to the Maidenvault, she stumbled upon Brandon.

“Good evening, brother,” she waved to him, yawning sweetly.

“Hello, Lya,” Brandon, like her, seemed to be glad to see a dear face. “Tired, are you?”

“No,” Lyanna shook her head. “I'm just fatally bored. I was hardly able to ride more than just a couple of times on my Dayflower, I am not allowed to practice with the sword, and even today I was ridiculed for saying that it would be good if women could wear men's clothes and carry weapons.”

“Someday you will bring destruction upon our heads, sister,” Brandon sighed and put an arm around her shoulders. “However, I must admit that I am almost ready to throw myself on spikes that stand at the bottom of the moat at the Maegor's Holdfast.”

“Maybe we can go on a small adventure?” Lyanna winked.

“What are you talking about?” Brandon tried to look sternly at her, but sparks had already exploded in his dark gray eyes.

“How about going hunting, Wild Wolf?” Lyanna smiled, knowing in advance that her brother would agree. “We can dress as ordinary townsfolk and get a glimpse at King’s Landing from the very heart of it. What do you say to that?”

“The streets of King's Landing are not the proper place for lord Stark's only daughter,” Brandon tried to object.

“My older brother will be with me,” Lyanna took his arm, “I have nothing to fear. We can take poor Albyn with us. I’m sure, he also misses our northern freedom.”

“Fine,” Brandon pretended to agree with great reluctance, but Lyanna knew well enough that he could not wait for the opportunity to chill out finally.

Albyn Snow agreed, of course, to go with them, although the idea did not appeal to him. As soon as the blue evening dusk fell upon the capital, all three, dressed in simple clothes without house colours or sigils, left the great bronze gates of the Red Keep, which were located under the barbican. As soon as they had set foot on a cobblestone city street, Lyanna clapped her hands joyfully, being no different from the daughter of a simple merchant.

Over the roofs of the many houses, a deep red sunset burned out with its last flashes, as if a huge dragon had suddenly come to life and breathed its magical flame into the blackening sky.

“Look how wonderful it is,” Lyanna exclaimed, admiring this beautiful creation of nature.

“When the sun is set,” Albyn Snow said with concern, “they will close the portcullis at the gate and not raise it until dawn.”

“Then we will go inside through the wicket door,” Lyanna said confidently, “or wait until dawn. Stop being afraid, imagine that you are an ordinary city dweller who sets off to drink a pint of good ale after a hard day,” she slapped Albyn on the shoulder, but he said nothing.

Lyanna liked this imaginary freedom, obtained by a fraud for only a few hours. She wanted to dive into the crowd and get lost among the townsfolk hurrying about their errands. Let the stream of people catch her like a sea wave and take her somewhere far away from the gloomy chambers of the Red Keep. However, these were only sweet dreams. An escape would have required a lot of money, which Lyanna did not have, and she had no idea how she could earn it. After all she would never put such a shame on her father and brothers.

They went first to the fish market, where the fishermen gave away the unsold take almost for nothing. The bitter smell of fresh fish hit her nose sharply, Lyanna remembered it well from the same fishing market in White Harbour. She enjoyed walking among the stalls, pretending that she was choosing something for dinner. People around her smelled of coarse canvas clothing, sea and salt, of real life, where every moment had its meaning and purpose, where days were not wasted on aimless chatter about one and the same thing.

The harbour fair, where all kinds of wonders from across the sea were offered during the day, by this time had already finished its brisk trade for the night, and it was left for the three of them only to stare at the dark silhouettes of the galleys laying at anchor at the harbour, in the thick dusk they resembled giant krakens. Ship lights served as eyes of the monsters, and gear and ropes as tentacles.

“Have you ever wanted to be a sailor, Albyn?” Lyanna asked.

“No, my lady,” the young man shook his head. “I do not like the sea. If you are ever so unlucky to find yourself in the middle of the storm, it will break your ship in two and eat you. Solid earth is sweeter to me.”

“A heavy stone can fall on your head while you are standing on the ground,” Lyanna laughed, “and make a hole in your skull. As for me, I love looking at the ships.”

“I remember when I was a child,” Brandon spoke up suddenly, “our father took us to White Harbour, Lya had stared at the ships for an hour, torturing the sailors with questions about what places they have visited and what wonders they have seen. They had never met such a grateful listener for their tales before. We had to lead our sister away from there by force.”

“Indeed, you have a good memory, brother,” Lyanna snorted.

“Of course,” Brandon smiled. “After all, I had to stay there with you, hungry, like a pack of wolves. No chance I’m to endure this again, I recall, we were promised a mug of ale.”

Albyn Snow also wanted to lower a mug, and they went to search for a nice tavern. The sun had already dived under the horizon, and night, black as ink, had fallen on the city. Loads of bright inviting lights were lit in the surrounding houses as if all of a sudden. Busy life on the streets did not stop even for a moment, but the people around seemed to be different. The shops had been closed, but on the other hand, drinking establishments and brothels, where fair citizens preferred to relax in the evenings, had opened their doors.

Brandon led Lyanna away from the street where the entertainment was concentrated, but also tried to choose an area where they would not be recognized by any chance. He had rejected several taverns that they had encountered along the way, because the visitors did not inspire any confidence in him. After quite a long walk Brandon had finally stopped near one that seemed safe and cozy for him and persuaded the others to go there.

“Bring us two mugs of ale, good master,” he called, sitting down at the rudely made wooden table, covered with worn-in spots of all drinks ever spilled on it.

“One moment, my lord,” the master bowed, he was a broad-shouldered middle-aged man with a thick black beard.

“Wait, master,” Lyanna stopped him from leaving. “Bring three mugs!” With a smile she glanced at her companions, but Brandon only waved his hand, not wanting to argue with his sister.

The master left, bowing his head low, and Lyanna looked around her, taking in the scenery. Everything in this tavern was simple, but comfortable: the furniture was cheap, or even self-crafted, but clean, there were loads of candles that made the hall unusually bright. Not so many people gathered inside, but all of them seemed friendly and decent.

Ale was brought to them by a girl, still a small child. However, despite her young age, the girl managed to carry three mugs so skillfully that not a single drop had escaped them. Busily placing the ale in front of the customers, she climbed on a chair at the neighbouring table and sat there as if waiting for something. Lyanna was somewhat surprised, and, catching her curious look, the girl took pity on her and explained:

“The Stranger Bard will sing now,” she said importantly. “Count yourself very lucky.”

“What’s the Stranger Bard? Who is he?” Brandon intervened before Lyanna was able to settle him.

“They named him Stranger, because no one had ever seen his face or heard his name,” the girl looked at Brandon as if he was a stupid child himself. “He is also called the Bard-in-the-Hood.”

Her brother wanted to say something else, but then the one whom the girl had been expecting so eagerly appeared in the middle of the hall, and she had lost all interest in her silly customers. A singer had indeed risen to view amidst the tables with a harp in his hands, he was a tall, graceful man in a simple black cloak and a black doublet, a hood covering his face was thrown over his head, and Lyanna could not see anything except his shaved chin.

The voices around died down suddenly, and Lyanna, turning her head to the other guests, realized that everyone was looking at the singer with the same enthusiasm and anticipation as the girl next to them. Somewhere in the depths a strange shadow flickered slightly, but Lyanna didn’t have time to discern whom it belonged to. After that Lyanna Stark didn’t see and didn’t notice anything at all. The long fingers of the Stranger Bard touched the strings gently, and his clear high voice filled the room and Lyanna’s soul.

The singer's voice was like a drink of cold spring water in the blazing Dornish desert, and it made Lyanna understand how much she was thirsty. Listening to him now it seemed to her that she would never be able to get enough. She had never heard the ballad he was singing before: it was a story about a young man falling in love with a girl who came to him only in his dreams. For many years he tried to seek her in the wide world, he traveled all over Westeros and Essos, sailed even to Sothoryos, looking for the girl, but could not find her, and only being a grey old man already he had met an old woman at a local fair, she was selling sea shells. Looking into the old woman's eyes, he realized at once that this was the same girl whom he knew from his dreams. The happiness of the meeting and the pain of the time lost filled his heart, causing it to burst, and the old man died right there, but a sad smile still reigned on his face.

When the singing was over, and Lyanna was able to feel her own body and mind again, she was suddenly aware that hot tears were streaming down her cheeks like the heavy winter rain. The ballad and the story told in it struck and moved her heart so, that Lyanna could not restrain herself.

“Look, Albyn,” Brandon grunted. “My sister’s sniffling from an overabundance of romantic feelings.”

“Not funny,” Lyanna snarled at him, wiping her wet cheeks with a lace handkerchief.

“And for me it’s so very funny,” Brandon did not agree, “you girls like weeping over a sugary love song ...”

He did not have time to finish the sentence, because Lyanna grabbed her mug with ale and poured it over his head with a completely dispassionate expression. While Brandon recalled all the curses known to him, and ale flowed down his collar, through his dark hair and beard, Lyanna turned to look again at the mysterious bard. He, however, was no longer there, just as there was no girl who brought the ale, and Lyanna had no one to ask where and when she could hear the Stranger Bard again.


	12. Cersei II

The pain that she endured was so violent, it seemed thousands of swords from the Iron Throne had thrust through her womb all at once. She could no longer restrain herself and screamed, not at all embarrassed by the outbreak. Both the old wrinkled midwife and the Grand Maester Pycell urged her to push on and suffer just a little longer. This “little longer” of them had been repeated on and on for many everlasting hours, and the new prince of the Seven Kingdoms still did not want to crawl out of his mother’s belly. It was easy for them to say that, the midwife was probably an old spinster, otherwise why would she do such an ignoble and unpleasant job as helping other women’s children come into the world. For sure she had never had kids of her own. And men could never understand how a woman feels, giving birth to a child, they groan and scream, bawling their heads off from the simplest injury. Cersei was sure that no pain from the worst wound could be compared to the birth pains. If some noble knight were in her place now, he would definitely not have lasted more than an hour.

In any case, she was enduring the horrible torture not in vain. The one who was now tearing her body apart, trying to get out into this world, would sooner or later sit on the Iron Throne. _You will have two children_ , the words of the old maegi were heard somewhere in the distance. _One true, one false._ Cersei had never attached much value to the prophecy of the old sorceress, preferring to believe only in the single part of it that pleased her. However, when maegi’s first prediction had proved to be true, Cersei began to recall the two others more and more often. She wondered now who this false child might be. Could that be the bastard of her husband, whom she would be forced to accept and raise as her own? She certainly would never tolerate such a stain on her pride, she had her father and all the power of the House Lannister on her side. Even if this happened, Rhaegar would not dare to drag his whoreson from another woman into their home.

A new bout of pain hit her body, like a wave punches a rocky cliff, and Cersei howled as a wounded lioness. The door to her bedchamber creaked quietly, and a bar of light cut through the dusk that filled the room, it started to grow, widening further, until Queen Rhaella entered the chambers of the Princess, holding a burning candle in her hand.

“Take a break,” the Queen nodded to one of Cersei's ladies in waiting lady Sewella Moreland, who was dozing in her chair. The poor thing had never known a man, and the sight of a difficult birth terrified her. Surely, after that she would never want to get married.

Lady Sewella jumped excitedly up and darted out of the room. When she was almost at the door the Queen spoke to her again:

“Be so kind as to find my eldest son and tell him how things are going with his wife. He had already inquired about her several times.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sewella squeaked, and was off.

_A coward_ , Cersei thought. _Pampered little fool. Do you think marriage means just dancing and kissing? Nothing of the kind..._

Queen Rhaella put a candle down, grabbed one of the wicker chairs scattered around the room, and pushed it closer to Cersei’s bed. The Princess felt the Queen's thin, cold hand touch her own and squeeze it slightly.

“Be patient, girl,” Rhaella said softly, her free hand had gently stroked Cersei’s messy hair damp with sweat. “It hurts, I know, but when your child is born, it will bring you the greatest happiness that only a mother knows.”

Cersei sobbed quietly, unbidden tears spilled from her eyes, and self-pity suddenly overwhelmed her. She hardly remembered her own mother, killed by this monster, whom they called her younger brother. Cersei secretly harboured the hope that the Queen, who had once been lady Joanna’s close friend, would replace her long-lost mother. Rhaella, however, always remained coldly polite with her and rarely left her own chambers, spending time in the company of her septas and ladies in waiting.

Now the Queen had showed sincere warmth to her, and Cersei no longer remembered her former coldness. Now she needed her mother more than ever and, forgetting everything, she reached for the Queen, as if lady Joanna herself had risen from the dead and visited her daughter when she was so ill. When the pain pierced her body again, Cersei grasped Rhaella's hand with force, but the Queen made no sign.

“Hush, sweetling, hush,” Rhaella whispered. “Soon it will all be over, and you will hold your baby.”

There was no reason not to trust the Queen, and Cersei persuaded herself to believe that her torment would really be over very soon. Unlike the midwife and Pycell, Rhaella was aware only too well of the torture a woman went through on a labour bed. The Queen was the mother to six children, and only two of them had survived. Remembering this, Cersei felt the fear strike her heart harder than any bodily pain. But what if her son is born dead or dies in infancy? Maegi didn’t say anything of the sort, but why then would a false child be needed? Cersei almost convinced herself that it would be her husband’s bastard, who would want to deprive her son of the Iron Throne.

With fear, Cersei tossed about the bed, her eyes open in horror.

“Calm down, Your Highness,” Pycell grated. “Lie down and don’t move, otherwise you can harm the child. Just a little longer,” he repeated, as if it was some kind of spell.

However, Cersei was already overwhelmed with such dread that she barely remembered herself, and only the sharp pain that crashed her emaciated body brought her back to reality. A fog fell across her eyes, and she saw only three vague spots instead of the faces of those who stood at her bedside. Rhaella's warm fingers, warmed up by the princess’s hot skin, still held Cersei's hand. Cersei remembered nothing but pain and screams. The musty air of the room, saturated with the smells of sweat and dry herbs, was filled with the metallic scent of blood. _Where does the blood come from?_ Cersei thought, not realizing that the thick red liquid was her own.

It seemed, that the swords that pierced her womb, were driven deeper, and then sharply pulled out of her. The acute pain was gone, only nagging ache from the wound remained. Something was whirring in her ears, as if thousands of flies were buzzing in the room, but Cersei had distinguished a clear child's cry through all this noise.

“My boy,” she whispered. “Is he alive ...?”

No one answered her, and suddenly Cersei felt pain again, albeit weaker. Her body tensed and the Princess whimpered. Her fingers squeezed the linen, crumpled and knocked down already. What is happening to her?

“Your child is alive, Your Highness, don’t worry,” Pycell muttered. “You still have to push a little longer. It will be over soon.”

Did that old fool really think that from his countless “a little longer” she would feel any better? Why nobody gave her son to her? Why is she still in pain? Frightened, she looked at the Queen, but Rhaella's face was calm, she smiled softly.

“Everything is going as it should, Cersei,” the Queen's quiet voice sounded muffled, as if somewhere in the other room, “calm down.”

Rhaella stroked the Princess’s head, and soon it was truly over. Cersei felt as if she had given the whole part of her life to a child. She was breathing heavily, but the hot and stuffy air of the room did not grant her any relief.

“My son,” Cersei wheezed. Her throat was sore from screaming, and her own voice could hardly obey her.

“You have a beautiful daughter,” the midwife proclaimed joyfully. “Little princess.”

The old woman had come closer to the bed, holding a freshly washed and swaddled baby in her arms.

“Daughter?” Cersei moved her lips, but no sound came. Feeling troubled, she fidgeted, tearing her hand out of the Queen's grip, which were still holding her. She was supposed to have a boy, a prince and heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms. Where is her son? They might have managed to replace him with a girl and now want to deceive her. Traitors. All of them are traitors, both the midwife, and Pycell, and even the Queen did nothing to protect her grandson.

“Give her some dreamwine,” Rhaella ordered speaking from somewhere above in an unexpectedly stern voice. The child screamed again. “Her consciousness is clouded because of the pain.”

“No,” Cersei continued to whisper. “My boy, my boy ...” She pulled her hands up in the hope that they would give her the baby. Cersei even tried to get up, but her body was too weak, and she could barely tear her head from the pillow, which was soaked with her sweat.

The Queen's heavy hand lay on her shoulder, urging the Princess to lie still. Traitors realized that she had guessed about the substitution, and now they want to put her to sleep, and, perhaps, to kill her altogether. Here they are both her children – one real and one false. She could not let that happen, it was impossible, she needed to find her boy. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, but only deaf sobs broke through her dry lips. No one heard her plea, no one wanted to help her, and Queen Rhaella continued to hold her, preventing her from standing up. Somewhere at the very bottom of her consciousness a thought about Jaime flashed and died down quickly. If he had been here, he would never have let any harm come to her, her champion, her knight.

“Have a drink, Your Highness,” Pycell's voice creaked somewhere close to her ear.

She felt the edge of a clay bowl rest against her lips. Cersei turned her head away, not wanting to take a single sip of dreamwine, part of the drink spilled on her face and a bloody drop travelled down her cheek, and then to her neck, crawling onto the pillow. She wanted to see her son.

“Have a drink, child,” the Queen's hand stroked her shoulder gently, motherly even. “You will fall asleep, and when you wake up, it will be much easier for you.”

Rhaella took Cersei’s head in her hands and turned it straight very carefully. Cersei tried to resist, but Rhaella's grip was surprisingly strong. Pycell pressed the bowl to her mouth, and she felt a sweet liquid flow onto her tongue. In order not to choke, Cersei was forced to swallow everything to the last drop. They let her go, and Cersei felt as if she was falling somewhere deep inside the pillows. The child’s cries became more and more distant and quiet, and they were mixed with the conversations of the people present in her chambers, and then all of this turned into an annoying whir of flies again. There were hundreds and thousands of them, they were buzzing, flying around Cersei, she wanted to brush them off, but could not raise her hands. It seemed to her that the door creaked, and the light burst inside again. They went away, leaving her alone. She needed to get up, catch up with them and demand that her boy be returned. If it only weren’t for these flies that buzz right at her ears! Cersei wanted to get up again, but instead felt that she was falling, and then all the sounds disappeared.

She opened her eyes, hearing someone singing quietly. The air in the room felt cooler, the bed was covered with clean sheets, and she was wearing a fresh night shirt. The curtains remained shut, so she could not determine what time of day it was. A candle was burning on a table standing in the corner, Elaine was dozing on the small couch near the Princess’s bed, and Cersei’s husband was sitting on a creaking wicker chair by the hearth and rocking their sleeping daughter tenderly, singing something to her in a soft voice. The glow of a candle flame danced in his happy eyes, and the most beautiful smile that he had ever allowed Cersei to witness played on his lips. At heart, she still hoped that all that had happened here was just a dream, and she had a boy, a prince, but her own suspicions about someone substituting the child intentionally, which visited her mind distorted by pain, seemed really mad now. Why would the Queen deprive her own son of his rightful heir? And why would such a silly assumption ever occur to her?

Cersei would give everything in the world for Rhaegar to look at her the way he was now gazing at her daughter. Her wedding day was the happiest day in Cersei’s life, and the first night with her husband was like a dream and played a fitting end to the tale of how a noble young maiden married the handsome prince. Rhaegar was kind and affectionate with her, but being intoxicated by her enthusiasm, she did not notice his detachment: he seemed to be with her, but his mind wandered elsewhere. In the morning, when she woke up and wanted to dive into his arms again, he was gone, and the fairy tale turned out to be just a silly child’s story. The gloomy and unhappy reality awaited the newly made princess.

Cersei tried her best to win Rhaegar's attention. She listened to him when he deigned to share his reasonings with her, to Cersei they seemed crazy most of the times, but she nodded her ascent to his every word, she was sweet, patient and gentle, but in return she received anything but her husband’s regard. Rhaegar treated her with respect, he did his best to fulfil all her requests and made sure that she was in need of nothing. He still visited Cersei at night, but almost stopped talking to her except about the simplest things. The Prince tried to hide it behind a pretended good-naturedness, but he heavily smelled of duty, and Cersei was disgusted and pained by this. What was wrong with her if Rhaegar could not love her?

Having spent enough time at court, she realized that the Prince was fully at the mercy of his father, and after Aerys had ousted lord Tywin from his position as the Hand of the King, Cersei realized that everyone from humble charwoman to mighty grand lord depended on the unpredictable will of the madman on the throne. Rhaegar, on the other hand, seemed to be observing all this, as if from the sideline or vice versa, angered his father with absolutely inappropriate manifestations of nobility hardly less insane than the King's actions. No matter how disgusted she was, she crept before Aerys for the two of them, and instead of showing gratitude, Rhaegar decided to send her to Dragonstone.

Cersei could not tolerate this, as the Prince wanted to simply get rid of her. She flatly refused to go, and Rhaegar, contrary to his usual quiet temper, insisted, convincing her that she and the child would be safe there. It was the very moment, when Cersei heard the iron tones in his voice for the first time, but she did not yield. As soon as she would leave the capital, Rhaegar would finally anger Aerys with his thoughtless actions, and the King would not fail to pass on the crown and all Cersei’s dreams along with it to Viserys. In the end, she burst into tears and clutched her stomach, lamenting that he did not spare their poor child at all, and Rhaegar had no choice but to embrace her and abandon all attempts to send her out of King's Landing.

Perhaps now he was glad that she stayed, because Aerys had come to acknowledge and encourage the Princess much more than his own son. Cersei was skillful with flattery, she gave the right answers to his questions and tried not to disturb his paranoia. She was firmly convinced that the King would soon trust her as his most faithful ally, and the throne would now rightfully pass to her husband and later to their child. The Princess congratulated herself on her victory: Rhaegar would thank her for her efforts later, realizing finally how much good she had done for him, and perhaps then he would learn to appreciate her and her counsel.

Cersei watched her husband and daughter for another moment, and then she cleared her throat quietly. Rhaegar raised his eyes to her, and the newborn smile died on her lips. The expression on his face did not change, the Prince continued to smile affectionately, but the sincere tenderness which shone in his indigo eyes was gone now. The little girl managed to get all his love thanks to the mere fact of her birth, yet Cersei would not deserve such a look in a century, no matter what she did.

“She is wonderful,” Rhaegar whispered enthusiastically.

“Yes, she is” Cersei did not know what else to say. “I’m sorry, my prince, for not being able to give you a son.”

“We have plenty of time for that,” the Prince said with such confidence, as if he knew the future. “The dragon has three heads.”

_One true child, one false_ , the maegi creaked again in the Princess's head, no matter how Cersei tried to shut her up. No, she was not afraid of this old woman, who had long been dead, and there is nothing left of her except bones, and even those must have turned to dust. On the labour bed, Cersei had loads of vague thoughts, but her mind was clouded with pain and fear for the child. There would be no false children, no bastards. She would not allow it. Cersei would give the Prince as many heirs as he wished.

“We need to come up with a name ...” Cersei began.

“Visenya,” Rhaegar smiled. “Her name is Visenya. I realized it as soon as I saw her.”

Cersei pursed her lips in displeasure and said nothing. Of course, nobody even considered asking for her opinion. Well, these were the Targaryens. In secret, she dreamed of calling her little girl Joanna, in honour of her late mother, although she was aware that her daughter would have to bear one of the valyrian names of her dragon ancestors.

“You do not like it?” Rhaegar asked, sounding a little disappointed.

“Why so?” Cersei said coldly. “Queen Visenya was a great woman. I hope our daughter will be of the same greatness.”

“She will become even greater,” Rhaegar said, rising from the chair. He kissed his daughter carefully on the forehead and handed the small bundle to her mother. “Forgive me, I was so carried away just by the sight of her that I completely forgot that you also want to say hello to our girl.”

Taking the baby from her husband’s arms, Cersei felt herself trembling. A wave of sensations, hitherto unknown to her, swept over the Princess when she saw the sweet face of little Visenya Targaryen. Cersei looked into her daughter's eyes, grayish and blue, like of all newborns, and if she ever had some conflicting feelings for this child, then they all had evaporated immediately, replaced by a huge storm of love, which Cersei had never experienced before.

“You are right, my prince,” she looked up at Rhaegar, “she is wonderful. She is the most beautiful girl in the world.”

The Prince did not answer, he bent down and gently kissed his wife on the top of her head. It was the most tender kiss that he had ever given her.

“We will have to introduce Visenya to the King and the Queen,” Rhaegar said with obvious reluctance. “However, at first you need to rest and regain your strength. I will not bother you any longer and come to visit you both later.”

Cersei hoped that he would kiss her again, but he only cast a last glance at his daughter and went out, leaving her alone with the child.

“I will not let anyone harm you, girl,” Cersei whispered, leaning towards her daughter. “If so is the will of the gods, then you will become queen, and no one will dare to take it from you.”

The baby seemed to understand the words of her mother and opened her toothless mouth as if in a smile. Visenya made some strange sound and pulled a chubby little hand to Cersei, forcing her to smile back. On this day, the Princess was truly happy for the first time.

Cersei had spent a week in bed, recovering from the childbirth. Maester Pycell had fussed around her almost all the time, watching her health. Every day he asked Cersei about her well-being, examined her and stuffed her with some herbs and tinctures, so that the Princess’s chambers smelled only of them. Cersei shouted at him, saying that she was doing well, but Pycell insisted, and the Queen herself supported him.

Queen Rhaella visited her good daughter and her newborn granddaughter very often, always accompanied by one of her septas. She had again become that sad and detached woman from before, and it now seemed to Cersei that the Rhaella she had witnessed during childbirth, was a mad dream, like everything else. Baby Visenya, however, always evoked a happy smile from her royal grandmother, and she used to sit for a long time beside the crib, admiring the girl.

All the nobles from the court paid their respects to both princesses, even Lucerys Velaryon and Symond Staunton appeared in her chambers. Their arrival surprised Cersei, because the dislike of these lords for her husband was well known to everyone, but both of them were extremely kind to her, and Cersei decided that the matter lay with the King himself. So, she was on the right track. She was always right, and Rhaegar was always mistaken, soon he would understand it himself. At the same time, Aerys did not honour her with a visit or mere congratulations.

For many days Cersei was entertained by her ladies in waiting, Lady Sewella was delighted with Visenya, as if she had forgotten how frightened she was during the birth. Elaine was constantly present at Cersei’s side, fulfilling any request of her mistress, but most of all Cersei was waiting for her husband's visits. Never in all the time since their wedding had she seen Rhaegar so often.

The Prince simply adored his daughter. He loved to cradle Visenya in his arms and talk to her quietly about something only the two of them shared, as if she were able to understand him, or sang his sweet sad songs to her. When a wet-nurse was found for the baby – a young woman named Jayne, Cersei ordered that the girl should stay in the Princess’s chambers all the time, so that her daughter would stay there as well, and Cersei could enjoy her husband’s company. Jayne huddled with Elaine on a small tough couch and only occasionally ran away to see her little son, left in the care of his grandmother. For Cersei it was all the same, she only thought of Rhaegar, who, having found love for their daughter, would also manage to love his wife. And when Cersei gives him an heir, he will be in the seventh heaven with happiness.

Tired of lying endlessly in bed, Cersei, who felt incomparably better, decided to get up. As soon as she sat down and dangled her feet from the edge of the bed, she felt dizzy, and the outline of the room swam before her eyes, but Cersei was in no hurry to return to the already sickeningly familiar pillows. Rather soon her state was indeed improved, and then the dizziness disappeared completely.

Elaine entered the room with the tray and almost dropped the whole Princess’s breakfast on the floor.

“Your Highness,” she chattered, “The Grand Maester has forbidden you to get up. Lie back please, otherwise he will scold me.”

“You are my servant, Elaine,” Cersei said sternly, “mine, not the Grand Maester’s, and you will follow my orders. Put the tray on the table and give me your hand.”

Elaine lowered her large eyes and complied. From the corner of the room, Jayne looked at them silently with her owl eyes, this woman generally was almost always silent, and at first Cersei even thought that she was dumb, or her tongue was cut off for some crime.

Elaine held out her hand timidly to her mistress, and, leaning heavily on it, Cersei stood up. Her head was spinning again, but this time the dizziness went away even faster. Cersei felt a slight weakness in her arms and legs, but otherwise her body obeyed her properly. She pulled her hand forward, studying it: her wrist seemed to become thinner, and her skin had acquired a sickly bluish tint. Fine for now, very soon it will again look as blooming and fragrant as the gardens in the spring. Cersei let go of Elaine's hand and went to her daughter, who was quietly sniffing in the cradle.

Someone knocked on the door politely, and the maid let Pycell into the room. Elaine's face turned red all at once and formed an expression of guilt. She opened her mouth, but no words came out of it, stopped by Cersei's stern gaze. The Princess leaned over to pick up her daughter, but when she saw Pycell she straightened up and gave him a very displeased stare.

“I remember having recommended your Highness not to leave the bed,” Pycell creaked, shaking his head.

“Maybe you have,” Cersei answered indignantly, “however, the Princess can decide herself what she does or does not. I feel great, and I am already tired of this custody amidst four walls.”

“Lie down, please,” Pycell pointed to the bed. “I need to examine you.”

Cersei agreed reluctantly, she answered all the Grand Maester’s questions all over again and suffered a not-so-pleasant examination.

“Well?” She asked when Pycell had finally moved away from her. “What do you think? That I am healthy as a young lioness?”

“Your Highness,” the Grand Maester frowned, “I'm afraid you will not like what I’m going to tell you.”


	13. Rhaegar II

Rain pouring outside beat out its own intricate rhythm on the keep library windows, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's delicate fingers echoed it involuntarily, tapping quietly on the thick spine of yet another book. He had come to his beloved library only not so long ago, having spent all morning with his daughter, who had won the battle for his attention without a fight, banishing the books out of his mind with her beautiful toothless smile.

Looking at little Visenya, Rhaegar could not believe that this child was a part of himself. Perhaps this ability to pass a tiny piece of yourself to another, completely new person, was the magic of this world, which Rhaegar could not fully comprehend. The Prince watched the baby for hours, gazed into her infant eyes, a mix of gray and blue, stroked her short blonde hair, wondering what colour would overrule when they grow a little longer – gold or silver? Rhaegar rocked Visenya when she began to cry and sang songs to her that he had composed only for his sweet girl. Cersei was touched but could not hide a stab of jealousy in her gaze, and the wet-nurse Jayne often said that the Prince fulfilled all her duties of looking after the child. Princess Visenya was a miracle, a real miracle, but her birth had knocked down all the assumptions that Rhaegar had previously built.

He thought that he would have a boy, his Promised Prince. When Cersei told him the good news, he was not yet sure enough about this, but when the strange dreams began to visit him, Rhaegar considered them the confirmation of the imminent appearance of the Promised Prince. These dreams, where he wandered through unfamiliar stone corridors in search of something, seemed so alive that the Prince became convinced of their unusualness at once. One time it even seemed to him that he had heard the voice of Arthur Dayne through the stonewall, and this had further alerted Rhaegar. The real Arthur, whom the Prince had told about his night visions, questioned Rhaegar's conclusions, but he was just being Arthur to doubt everything, and the Prince loved him no less. Rhaegar himself, however, believed that these dreams meant only one thing: magic had awakened, and the fulfillment of the prophecy is nigh. Everything had turned out fine, and only the little girl Visenya had mixed all the tiles in the Prince’s perfect mosaic. If he had only managed to get the “Signs and Portents,” which Daenys the Dreamer had once written down, perhaps he would have found his answers there, but this book was considered long lost.

Turning over the page of the ancient volume, Rhaegar had raised a swirl of dust that had hit him directly in the nose. The Prince sneezed, and in response he heard a scared woman’s outcry, a rustle came from the corner, as if a frightened bird had fluttered from a branch. Rhaegar turned away from reading and looked up, meeting his eyes with Lyanna Stark, who stood in front of him pale with fear. She appeared from behind a high rack like a ghost and now stared at the Prince with wide-open gray eyes. In their depths, he saw a winter sky covered with clouds, he wanted to become a bird himself and fly into this inaccessible height.

“Forgive me,” they seemed to say it at the same time, and both looked down. Lady Lyanna blushed, and Rhaegar was suddenly out of breath, feeling extremely embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to scare you ...” Rhaegar began.

“I didn't mean to bother you,” lady Lyanna echoed him. As if recollecting herself, she made a curtsy and, added, totally abashed: “Bless you, Your Highness!”

“Thank you, my lady,” the Prince realized that he had completely forgotten about good manners, allowing himself to sit in the presence of the lady. Rhaegar put the book down, jumped up hurriedly and gestured for lady Lyanna to take a seat in one of the chairs next to him.

She showed her consent with a slight nod and sat down, straightening the hem of a simple dark blue dress on her knees. Rhaegar returned to his place, not knowing what to do next, either bury himself in a book again or continue a conversation. Now he bitterly regretted that he was so poor at the science of small talk, as a rule, he always tended to start with a discussion of the weather, and if the other party was equally inept, the conversation usually faded before even starting to burn.

“What brings you here?” Rhaegar offered finally, seeing that the girl took to straightening her hem again. “Usually I do not meet anyone here except the Grand Maester and the septas of my mother.”

“Am I distracting you?” Lady Lyanna asked, startled. “I should probably leave ...”

“No, no,” Rhaegar hastened to assure her, he reached out to hold her from going away, but midway considered this gesture inappropriate and was ashamed of himself. “I’ve put it wrong, you do not bother me at all. I was just wondering…”

“Good,” lady Lyanna smiled shyly. “I came here out of boredom,” she admitted, looking away and staring at her restless hands, which still had not found a comfortable place on her lap. “Your mother is unwell, my brother disappeared somewhere, and the rain prevents me from riding.”

“And you decided to try a good book?” Rhaegar asked, tilting his head slightly and studying the girl carefully.

“Yes,” lady Lyanna mused for a moment. “Please don’t think of me as some kind of simpleton, I love books,” she assured him fervently, and then coyly added: “More than stitching, at least.”

“I do not reckon you a simpleton at all,” Rhaegar tried to make his tone reassuring, but it did not work out well. As soon as he caught the gaze of her gray eyes, she was immediately abashed, her cheeks gained the colour of red winter apples, and she turned away. “I see you in the training yard quite often, are you interested in martial arts?”

_And the young knights_ , he added to himself. Only Oswell Whent would have dared to speak this sentence out loud.

“You are right,” for the first time lady Lyanna’s voice contained genuine enthusiasm, “very interested. And watching the best of the best is a pleasure indeed! You have probably heard about ser Harlan already,” the sky of her eyes suddenly darkened, “it is so sad.”

“I’ve surely heard,” Rhaegar said, he was one of the first to learn about such things. Ser Harlan Grandison, one of the seven knights of the Kingsguard, had died a few days ago in his sleep. “Honourable life and easy death.”

“Now a knew knight will be found to fill his place?” Lady Lyanna inquired, curious.

“Yes, but I cannot tell you, who it will be, my lady, for I am not in possession of such knowledge myself. Father... he doesn’t always share his plans with me,” Rhaegar went silent for a brief moment, and chose to change the subject: “I bet, my lady, that you would not refuse a place among the most honorable knights of all the Seven Kingdoms yourself.”

This statement was planned as a spontaneous joke, but lady Lyanna was confused for some reason, not knowing what to answer, and this worried Rhaegar. Indeed, his manners were a complete and utter disaster, as he was not able to talk to a young lady without offending her.

“Forgive me,” the Prince repeated once again, putting all his sincerity into the statement, “I don’t know why my words have upset you, but believe me, I had no such intention at all.”

“You couldn't know,” lady Lyanna smiled, shaking her head. One dark chestnut curl had spontaneously broken out of her simple hairdo and fell on her forehead, Rhaegar glanced at it, and was not table to look away anymore. The Prince caught himself on a sudden thought that he wanted to touch this curl and tuck it behind a small, elegant ear. Lady Lyanna continued to speak, bringing Rhaegar back to his senses, and he was distraught by his own intentions. “I really would like that, but everyone just laughs at my wish.”

“There is nothing funny about this,” the Prince objected vehemently, “you are a very brave girl.”

“Perhaps you are the only one at court thinking so,” lady Lyanna shrugged. “May I inquire what you read?”

Rhaegar closed the book, showing a flyleaf to Lady Lyanna.

“The Book of Lost Books,” lady Lyanna read aloud. “I have never heard of it.”

“Very few have ever heard of it,” the Prince smiled. “It was written only recently”.

“Are you searching for the lost books?” The girl asked thoughtfully. It seemed to Rhaegar that he had managed to awake her amazement from a long slumber.

“You could say that,” Rhaegar answered distractedly. If she had heard of his true motives, she would have probably considered him a madman just like his father. Perhaps the Prince was mad indeed, and all that he believed in was only a figment of his sick mind? Sometimes Rhaegar mused about it, and such reflections had always frightened him.

Lady Lyanna did not speak further, and an awkward silence had fallen between them. The girl looked away from the Prince, and he allowed himself to study her openly. Each time, meeting Lyanna Stark somewhere around the keep, he shot secret glances at her, like the arrows from the outlaw concealed deep in the woods. He had to hide them well from everyone else, but Arthur Dayne, experienced in catching outlaws, still noticed them to the Prince’s frustration. Now, Rhaegar could stare at her for as long as he wanted, his gaze touched her thin elongated face, thick brown hair, assembled in a humble unpretentious style, slightly upturned nose, small mouth. She mesmerized him strangely, making him worry and feel embarrassed like a green boy, but once he looked at her, the Prince was no longer able to take his eyes off her.

“Will you help me choose something to read to pass the time?” Lady Lyanna spoke unexpectedly, startling Rhaegar. When he was back again in the surrounding reality, he noticed that his fingers gripped the spine of the book with such a force that his knuckles turned white.

“Sure,” he nodded. “A tale of the brave knight and his beautiful lady, I presume?”

“It's too boring,” Lady Lyanna shook her head. “I’ve heard enough of such fairy tales from the septa that had brought me up, it seems, even serving the Seven, she did not stop believing in this nonsense.”

“And you, as far as I see, do not believe in fairy tales?” Rhaegar smiled.

“No,” the girl answered, “having read such a nice story, you can start thinking that it was all true. Such tales are too sweet, like a treacle pie, and I prefer lemon cakes.”

“It’s not so easy to please you, my lady,” Rhaegar said in a playful tone. He got up and went to the shelves, Lyanna Stark followed him. He turned to her, afraid that his attempts to seem cheerful and spontaneous would offend her again. Lyanna, however, smiled. “What about the Nine Voyages? As a child, I was fascinated by this book.”

“I would prefer to take the voyages myself, Your Highness,” the girl said. Rhaegar did not understand right away whether she was laughing or speaking seriously, and that confused him. He looked inquiringly at Lady Lyanna, and the sparks in her eyes showed him the right answer.

“Your imagination will help you with this,” the Prince pulled the book off the shelf and shook off the dust, which soared into the air in a whirlwind and settled in small snowflakes on the sleeve of his black doublet. “You just have to close your eyes for a short while,” he whispered enthusiastically, leaning closer to lady Lyanna, “and you can travel to the jungles of Yi-Ti or sail through the Jade Sea to Lang, there will be no time, no boundaries, or dangers, you will be free and able to embrace the whole world.”

Recalling with sadness, that as he was a little boy it was his only way to travel the world, Rhaegar closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he met with deep gray pools gazing at him enthusiastically. For a few moments they looked at each other like that, and then both turned away at the same time.

“Well,” lady Lyanna breathed out so quietly that Rhaegar barely heard her, “I will probably use your advice, because I’m unlikely to ever see all these wonders with my own eyes.”

“Why so?” Rhaegar inquired.

“Because,” the girl said sadly, “being a good and obedient daughter, I will have to marry the noble lord, embroider his handkerchiefs and give him a bunch of healthy heirs. I doubt that he will share my love for wanderings.”

“You must not give up,” the Prince encouraged her. “Perhaps you are lucky, and your husband will be worthy of you.”

“And may I inquire if you have met many such lords that go far beyond their lands?” Lady Lyanna shrugged. “But since you, Your Highness, do not want me to be discouraged, I will probably try not to.”

“That's good,” Rhaegar handed her the book. “I've never been to the North, my lady. Would it be too much to ask you to tell me more about it? In such a way we would be travelling there together.”

“I would be honoured, my prince,” Lady Lyanna reached out to take the Nine Voyages from him, and their fingers touched for the smallest fraction of a moment. It did not go unnoticed for Rhaegar, as the deep red colour rushed over the girl’s face, and he felt such heat overwhelm him, as if he was lost in the withered Dornish desert.

This light touch was so swift that the Prince did not have the chance to feel it properly. Rhaegar wanted to take her little palm in his, caress her white skin. He wondered what it felt like: was it soft, like that of the southern girls, or a little rough from the northern frosts, which were rampant in the land where she came from? He wanted to sense whether her hands were hot or cold, like his mother’s, for a moment he imagined her hand stroking his hair gently but did not advance further with the vision, feeling abashed. It was clear to the Prince that these thoughts were shameful, but he could not and did not want to fight them. Never in his whole life had he experienced such strong and exciting sensations.

“My prince.”

It seemed like Rhaegar was awakened from a particularly pleasant dream when he saw the disapproving stare of his friend Arthur Dayne.

“Forgive me,” Arthur said, however, it was clear from his tone that he was far from asking for an apology, “but it’s time to go outside. The rain has stopped, and the air is just right for training.”

“You are right, ser Arthur,” Rhaegar forced the words out of his mouth unwillingly, sending Arthur to the seventh hell with one severe glance. “Good day, my lady,” he bowed to Lyanna, “you would have liked the place I am going to much more than this dusty boring library. I swear by the Seven, I would love to switch off with you. I hope that we will meet soon, so that you can fulfill your promise.”

“Good day, Your Highness,” Lady Lyanna answered him with elegant curtsy. “The people of the North do not make promises they cannot keep.”

Rhaegar had to leave, although he did not want to. Arthur was right in his silent condemnation, and the Prince understood all too well himself that it was indecent for a married man, let alone an heir to the throne, to remain for such a long time in the same room with the maiden without a chaperone. Being near lady Lyanna, listening to her, looking at her, Rhaegar had completely forgot about all the conventions and rules of etiquette. He justified himself by recalling that he had come across Lyanna Stark by accident, and it would have been rude of him not to engage her in a polite conversation, but he had to admit that this was just an excuse for the others. The Prince had long wanted to speak with lady Lyanna and was now glad that his wish had come true.

His conscience kept repeating that he had acted inappropriately, a sense of duty which had served a driver of his life since his earliest years, pressed painfully into his wrists with harsh unbreakable chains, and for the first time, Rhaegar did not want to bow before it, did not want to obey, but tried to break the bonds that tightened him, no matter how painful and tormenting it was.

“Let me ask you a question, my prince,” ser Arthur spoke when they left the Red Keep, having changed into their sparring armour.

“It seems to me, that we have agreed a long time ago, my dear ser, that when there is no one around, we will let us be above all these unnecessary formalities,” Rhaegar said amiably. “Something tells me that I had the misfortune of provoking your discontent somehow, and that I won’t like that question of yours, but you are free to ask it.”

“What promise did Lyanna Stark give you?” As soon as they went down to the sand of the training yard, ser Arthur stopped and looked at the Prince sternly with his dark purple, almost black eyes.

“You have nothing to worry about, Arthur,” Rhaegar tried to add a little more ease to his tone, “she’s just promised to tell me more about the North. You will not argue that this would be useful to me.”

“I won’t,” Arthur agreed reluctantly, “but I would have been more careful, if I were you.”

“Thank you for the advice, my friend.”

Rhaegar expected him to continue, but the knight was silent, remaining true to his tact, and for some reason the Prince felt ashamed. Whatever Rhaegar's own desires and aspirations were, the stone of duty had landed on his shoulders at birth. If the Prince were to try and throw this stone off himself, those few whom he loved could suffer.

“What shall we choose today?” Dayne asked, as if the last couple of moments had never happened. “Swords again, or maybe spears?”

“Well, a little change won’t hurt,” Rhaegar sighed. “Richard,” he shouted to his squire, “haven’t you heard? Bring the spears to ser Arthur and myself.”

Having received their weapons from the young Lonmouth, the Prince and the kingsguard had entered into their usual dance. The air after the rain was fresh and a light breeze pleasantly chilled the body heated from the exercise. It was strangely easy to breathe this freely, and a new, stupefying scent of nature’s awakening had flown through the Red Keep. Has winter truly come to an end, and would they soon be blessed with the long-awaited spring?

“I have noticed, you started to spend more time with your wife,” Arthur said, dodging Rhaegar’s unexpected blow deftly. Dayne, it seemed, had set out to inquire about the Prince's relationship with Cersei. With private talks the kingsguard was too obvious, even when he thought himself careful and cunning.

“My wife seems to haunt your mind quite a lot,” Rhaegar shook his head. He failed to catch Dayne unawares all over again, and the thrill of a competition heated the Prince's dragon blood more and more intense. “I hardly speak to her. The only topic we can discuss together is our daughter,” Rhaegar’s words were abrupt, interspersed with frequent and heavy breathing, constant blockages and lunges.

“Are you unhappy?” Dayne asked bluntly.

“It is...” Rhaegar rushed violently forward, having utterly forgotten that such easy passes were close to nothing for the one called the Sword of the Morning, “hard for me,” he concluded, backing away.

From the look on Arthur’s face, the Prince was convinced that the single short sentence, uttered in a tired and perplexed voice, told Dayne more than the longest and the most detailed story could have. Arthur fell silent and stuck the spear into the wet sand, giving them both a chance to catch their breath. Rhaegar saw his friend was sympathizing with him, and knew very well what Dayne could say, but the knight was silent. The words were useless, they would not have improved anything, Rhaegar would always be bound by his position as a crown prince and future king, and Arthur would be burdened by his oath to protect the king, no matter how mad the latter was.

“The Princess will help me fulfill the prophecy,” Rhaegar said deafly. “Visenya is just the beginning, there will be two more. If I have to sacrifice my happiness for this, then I am ready to do it.”

Arthur shook his head and said no more. No matter how hard Rhaegar tried to convince the kingsguard that he was right, Arthur always shook his head just like he did now. It seemed that Dayne would only believe in all that he called “utter nonsense” when the prophecy was fulfilled.

“Doesn't it seem to you that your spouse spends too much time in the company of the King?” Arthur asked warily.

“After giving birth, she hardly left her room,” Rhaegar shrugged, “and His Grace has not yet expressed a desire to look at his granddaughter,” the Prince’s voice echoed with the grievance he nursed against his farther, but deep inside his soul it was strangely mixed with relief. It was unlikely that this meeting could be pleasant for anyone other than the King, who will not fail to humiliate his son again. Fortunately, Visenya was still too small to be aware of what was happening, but Rhaegar himself would have preferred not to see his father around the baby princess at all. If it had not been for Cersei, he would have taken his family to Dragonstone a long time ago and would have remained there in relative safety far from the intrigues of the capital.

“And before?” Arthur was not a person to let the topic up so easily. “Based on what I managed to notice, she was deliberately seeking his company.”

“Perhaps,” Rhaegar was forced to accept.

“I have to admit, it bothers me,” Dayne spoke with all due respect, but still very firmly. “I believe you should consider this and take some action.”

“What can I do?” The Prince cried, but stopped short quickly, not letting his emotions fully possess him. “I can only hope that the birth of my daughter will distract her from these dangerous games.”

“You seem to be enthralled by your daughter more than by any woman,” Arthur changed the subject, realizing that he had inadvertently entered dangerous land, and was in a hurry to turn back before any harm could be done. He raised his spear again and signaled to the Prince, Rhaegar nodded, also adopting a fighting posture.

“You're right,” the Prince agreed, being the first to lunge. This had become his habit already, as Dayne had never started the fight first and only teased and tried to anger the opponent. Rhaegar attempted to hold on as long as possible, but every time it was he who gave up, for Arthur, it seemed, could spend hours dancing around him, without delivering blows and simply driving the Prince crazy. “I think I love her more than anyone in the world.”

“I see a smile on your face,” Dayne said, eluding the Prince’s blow gracefully and immediately delivering his own. “I don’t know who should be thanked for it, whether it is Visenya, or someone else, but I'm glad that you’re not so sour all the time,” Arthur was speaking the last words when the Prince was already lying on the ground, and the tip of the white cloak’s spear rested against his throat .

“Perhaps, Arthur,” Rhaegar said, rising, “I should be happy that you are fighting on my side.”

Dayne only shrugged his shoulders, but the Prince noticed how the knight’s eyes twinkled: vanity was not alien to ser Arthur, after all. Back on his feet, Rhaegar threw his spear aside and began to brush himself off: after hitting the ground he was all covered in damp sticky sand. The sand came easily off the leather of his training vest, but it seemed that it penetrated the cloth of his woolen breeches deeper with every movement. Rhaegar snorted in displeasure, and Arthur laughed.

“Have you received an invitation to the tourney in Harrenhall?” The kingsguard asked, grinning as he watched the Prince try and get rid of the sand.

“Yes,” Rhaegar replied. “You?”

“Of course,” Arthur folded his arms over his chest. “What kind of tourney it is without the Sword of the Morning among the lists? Are you going to enlist as well?”

“Just to unhorse you before you become totally unbearable,” the Prince grinned good-naturedly.

“Another round?” Dayne winked when Rhaegar had finally finished cleaning himself up, but the Prince shook his head.

“No, Arthur, I need to change, because you’ve sent me to the ground and I’m all itchy from the sand,” Rhaegar grunted. “And it does not fit the Crown Prince to appear in such an awful state in front of his future subjects.”

“I marvel at your perfect mood, Your Highness,” Arthur smiled. “I'm afraid one can blame a certain northern lady for this.”

“Let us drop it, my friend,” Rhaegar dismissed the subject, not wanting to recognize that the knight had hit very close to the target, “I don’t want us to spoil such a wonderful mood, as you’ve called it.”

“As you say,” Dayne surrendered. “You know, I will support you in everything, Rhaegar. I just beg you to take care and don’t do anything stupid.”

“I promise,” the Prince patted his loyal guard’s shoulder and headed for Maegor's Holdfast.

A smile warm as the spring sun, played on his lips, but, approaching the drawbridge, Rhaegar’s look turned back to serious. If they see him being too happy, they will surely suspect that he is going mad. Ser Lewyn Martell, standing guard at the other side of the bridge, bowed to the Prince.

“How do you do, ser Lewyn?” Rhaegar inquired.

“All is well, thank you,” the knight took some time before giving an answer, he was clearly surprised at the usually silent Prince speaking to him so unexpectedly.

Rhaegar left ser Lewyn to his bewilderment, and having crossed a small courtyard, hastened to his chambers. He wanted to pull off his clothes, dirty and wet from the sparring they chilled his skin, making him feel uncomfortable even with the lightest breeze.

Passing by the door to Cersei's chambers, Rhaegar heard a baby wailing and was alert at once. Visenya was a calm and quiet child, she rarely bothered her mother and wet-nurse with incessant cries, designed only to attract the attention. Is his girl sick or something worse had happened? The Prince felt his heart freeze in his chest, as if paralyzed by fear.

Without even knocking, he pushed the thick wooden door and went inside. At first, the room seemed completely empty to Rhaegar except for his daughter crying in her crib, but then his eyes caught Jayne sleeping on the small couch close to the bed. The sight had outraged and angered the Prince. How could she sleep when the poor child is so scared? Jayne always made an impression of a kind and quick girl, and Rhaegar was disappointed that he was so utterly mistaken in her. He rushed to Visenya and took the baby in his arms, holding her little head carefully.

“Hush, my sweet darling,” he whispered, rocking his daughter gently and kissing her forehead. The girl’s face was covered with red spots, she continued to scream and tried to grab her father by the vest with small hands. “Daddy’s here, everything’s fine. Stop crying. You must be hungry, my poor thing.”

Continuing to soothe Visenya, Rhaegar shook Jayne by the shoulder, but the girl did not wake up, her head took a strange position, and one hand, lying on her stomach, slipped down and fell with a thud on the couch surface. The Prince tried again to wake her, although it had already become clear for him that his efforts were useless. Jayne's skin was colder than it should have been, and her chest did not go up and down from breathing. She was already in the power of the Stranger.


	14. Cersei III

Cersei sat in front of the mirror, trying on the emerald necklace that her husband had given her to celebrate the birth of their daughter. The sparkling green stones encased in gold reflected the color of her eyes, however, the Princess's skin was too pale from staying amidst the four walls in her chamber for unbearably long time, it’s colour remained no longer the softest pink, resembling the tender myrish silk. It seemed her daughter had taken all to herself not only the attention of people in her closest circle, but also her mother’s beauty to make everything worse. Somewhere in the darkness behind her, she heard the baby sucking the wet-nurse’s milk, smacking her lips delightfully.

Cersei let out an annoyed sigh and pursed her lips. Consumed by a sudden fit of anger, she tossed the necklace to the small table in front of the mirror. The smacking, meanwhile, ceased, giving way to a joyful grunt.

“Hand me the baby,” Cersei ordered the wet-nurse in exasperation.

The Princess stared at her reflection in the bleary mirror surface, studying her face for traces of her former blooming beauty and pondering how to get it back. Perhaps Pycell could help her, bring some ointments or potions that would make her smashing and desirable again. Surely, the ladies at court often asked him about such kind of help. A shadow flickered behind Cersei, and the Princess was ready to welcome her daughter to her arms, but the one who was now standing behind her held no child. Looking into the owl’s eyes, which literally gnawed at her, Cersei was suddenly cold with horror, she was gasping for breath, and, releasing a frightened shriek, she turned around, still not believing that it was not the foul game of her imagination. However, Jayne still stood there, gazing at her silently.

“What are you doing here?” Cersei cried, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as if trying to protect herself. “You should not be here!”

Jayne did not utter a sound, as if Cersei’s words meant nothing for her. With her rough calloused fingers, she fingered the emerald necklace painstakingly. How did it come to her, if Cersei had just put the necklace on the table with her own hands?

“Go away,” the Princess hissed. “Get out of here! Now!”

Jayne, however, did not move, as if she had not heard the Princess scream at all, and stood like a statue. Cersei tried to jump up and attack her, but she had suddenly realized that she was not able to move. The Princess grabbed the back of the chair she sat on with such force, that she felt pain in her fingers. She roared like a wild lioness, seized by travelling circus and put into a cage, and Jayne snapped the necklace like a whip in front of her face.

In a blink of an eye, Jayne came closer and wrapped the necklace around Cersei’s thin neck. The stones pierced painfully into the sensitive skin, and Cersei howled. Unable to move, the Princess could only look in the mirror and watch with eyes wide-open from terror how gold and emeralds went deeper and deeper into her white graceful neck, how her face turned red, how the whites of her eyes popped out of their sockets, turning her into a real monster.

“True and false,” Jayne said in a hoarse voice.

Jayne’s hair had suddenly started to turn gray, and after a couple of moments all of her heavy dark curls became gray and thin, and her face was covered with wrinkles, crawling deep inside her fair skin, like cracks in a broken glass. Jayne's eyes darkened and stared at Cersei with a sly squint. Jayne was gone, and it was Maggie the Frog, who stood now behind the Princess, tightening the necklace around her throat with growing force.

“True and false,” the old woman croaked and burst out laughing.

Overwhelmed with dread, Cersei sat up in bed and felt her neck frantically, trying to find traces of stones biting into it, but the Princess's skin remained smooth and untouched. She sucked in the air abruptly as if trying to swallow it and fell into a fit of severe coughing. The Princess’s heart leapt like a galloping horse, and Cersei took a few minutes to recover and calm her breathing, ceasing to gape, like a fish thrown out of the water onto the shore.

The curtains in her bedchamber were drawn, and darkness filled all its corners, but the gloom remained empty, like the soundlessness of the sleeping room. Cersei stood up, and stepping on the soft myrish carpet quietly, carefully looked around. Her body trembled under the thin nightgown of smooth silk, as if from the morning chill, and it appeared to Cersei that the maegi was going to jump at her from any dark corner and finish her. The emerald necklace flickered dimly on the small table by the mirror, where the Princess had left it last night, having removed it after an audience with the King. Cersei wanted to grab it and throw it out the window, like some poisonous snake, but she stopped midway, thinking that she would not be able to explain its disappearance to Rhaegar.

To Cersei's great relief, she realized that she was in her new chamber, where she had moved almost right away after Jayne's death, on Rhaegar's insistence. After taking a few more steps along the carpet, the Princess opened noiselessly the door, which led to the nursery and studied the room carefully. Elaine and Visenya’s new wet-nurse slept on two narrow beds. The baby was quietly sniffing in her crib, not even realizing how many people loved her and cherished her, ready to inundate the little girl with gifts and attention. Cersei leaned towards her daughter and peered through the darkness at her sweet features. Love filled the Princess’s heart again, as it happened every time, she looked at her dearest baby, but this love had a salty taste of tears, and it pained mother’s heart with regrets.

Cersei regretted that Visenya was born a girl, that Rhaegar loved only his daughter, neglecting Cersei herself, that everyone fussed around the little princess, forgetting about her mother, as if she were only a vessel for delivery of royal heirs. Cersei recalled how enraged Rhaegar had been when he found Visenya weeping loudly, being utterly alone in the room with the dead wet-nurse. He only worried about the possible danger to his daughter but did not even think about any danger to his wife.

Cersei had entered her chamber, accompanied by Pycell and ser Jonothor. She was taken aback and scared, seeing Rhaegar there with Visenya in his arms but then she had pulled herself together, as it was not enough for the Prince to suspect that something was wrong. Rhaegar was unusually pale, his lips tightened into a thin line, and indigo eyes flamed with fury.

“What’s going on here?” He asked sternly, burning all three of them with his stare. “Why is my daughter crying at the top of her lungs? What’s happened to Jayne? Why is the door not locked and there are none of the guards nearby? Where have you been, ser Jonothor?”

“Her Highness wished to get out of bed today,” ser Jonothor explained meticulously, “and she has sent me to look for her maid Elaine. I’ve searched the entire Maegor's Holdfast, but I haven’t found the girl, my prince, and then ser Lewyn informed me that she had gone to the city.”

Cersei turned her eyes from the guard to her husband, carefully studying the reaction of the latter and trying not to intervene until she was asked. Darry offered a detailed report, but his deep low voice had vibrated with dissatisfaction that he, the kingsguard, was sent to look for the ordinary servant. Cersei knew perfectly well that he could not refuse to follow the Princess’s order but decided to try and cajole him in the future nevertheless, so as not to make another enemy for herself.

“Good,” Rhaegar nodded, his lips pursed. The Prince obviously was not satisfied with the answer ser Jonothor had provided. Their daughter in his arms had calmed down a little, she had put her father’s finger in her mouth and now sucked at it, stopping to wail so heartbreakingly. Rhaegar, however, did not let the child out of his arms, continuing to rock her gently. “And you, Your Highness? Where were you?”

Rhaegar's indigo eyes darkened, becoming almost black, with the lights of rage dancing deep inside them. The Princess should be very careful now in order not to add more dry wood to the fire of his anger.

“Ser Jonothor is right,” Cersei took a few steps around the room, took a handkerchief scented with rose water from the table and raised it to her nose. “I felt so good today and decided to leave the bed, but Elaine disappeared, and I asked ser Jonothor to find her for me. And when he was gone, I just wanted to take my daughter in my arms,” the Princess sobbed, and a tear rolled down her pale cheek, “but Visenya started to cry and I wasn’t able to calm her, no matter what I did,” Cersei exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I tried to get to Jayne, but I couldn’t, she wouldn’t wake up! I was very scared, my prince. I was so frightened and did not know what to do at all and I rushed to look for the Grand Maester.”

She burst into tears and, throwing herself at Rhaegar, clung to his arm and buried her face in his chest, pouring tears into the rough leather of his vest. He smelled of sweat and wet sand, which was smeared all around his clothing, but Cersei did not move away, only pressed harder to him. Rhaegar stood still, not wanting to let go of his daughter and not leaving a single crumb of affection and compassion for his wife.

“Enough,” he pushed Cersei away from him, “calm down. I understand that you were scared, but you did something silly and imprudent. Let’s leave it here, however. Ser Jonothor, be so kind as to fetch ser Gerold and find out if my mother can also come here. Grand Maester, I suppose you should examine the poor girl’s body, but first, give my wife something to sooth her. My princess, can you answer my question distinctly?”

“Yes,” Cersei nodded, releasing Rhaegar's arm from her grip.

“Have you noticed Jayne having any symptoms of an illness? Any possible symptoms.”

“No,” Cersei's golden curls swayed in the air, “she was perfectly healthy.”

“Good.” Rhaegar rubbed his forehead tiredly. “My lords, I thought, I have given you orders. Execute, please.”

The Prince had no longer bothered to notice his wife, and she sat down on the edge of her bed, continuing to diligently wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. When the Prince was tenderly putting Visenya back in her crib, and the task compelled Rhaegar to turn away for a few moments, Cersei made sure to throw a warning glance at Pycell, which he bowed obediently to. Cersei was almost sure that the Grand Maester would remain faithful to her and her house, but it did not stop her from reminding him of his loyalties once again, for Pycell was already old and too fearful. It took just to threaten him the slightest for him to wet his pants at once.

Meanwhile, Darry had returned to the chamber with Queen Rhaella and her septas, ser Gerold had arrived along with the pack of maids. One of them brought a hot, soothing broth for the Princess, prepared on Pycell’s orders. It smelled strongly of something bitter, and Cersei grimaced. She pretended to drink but did not take a single sip. Now her mind should remain clear as never before, otherwise she might blurt out something silly and deeply regret that later.

“Mother,” the Prince greeted the Queen, kissing her hand. “I’ve heard in the morning that you were not feeling well. I hope you are better now?”

“It's nothing, son. I forgot all about my sickness when Ser Jonothor told me what had happened. May the Seven help us, Rhaegar,” Rhaella said anxiously, putting her hand on her son’s shoulder. “You think someone did this ... on purpose?”

Cersei, who had not paid attention to the cacophony of the conversations before, listened more carefully, trying to make out what was said through the buzz that filled the room.

“I don't know, mother,” the Prince shook his head, and Cersei caught the alarm in his voice. “The princess says the girl looked healthy. Why would she die then, if not from poison? And who would be interested in the death of an inconspicuous girl in that case? Having poisoned the wet-nurse, they aimed at my daughter.”

_Our daughter_ , Cersei corrected inwardly, she was angry at her husband because he, albeit not intentionally, appropriated Visenya all to himself, having forgotten that the girl had a mother, and he had a wife. She could not have thought that Rhaegar would suspect an attempt on Visenya’s life, it seemed to her that the death of an ordinary girl without kith or kin would not attract any attention, but now the Prince, scared for their daughter’s safety, would put the whole Red Keep into a tizzy.

“Who would want to murder an innocent child?” Rhaella exclaimed. Her septas stood behind her like two gray watchtowers and shook their heads simultaneously. _I wonder, do they sleep and relieve themselves together too?_ Cersei thought spitefully.

“Anyone,” Rhaegar folded his arms on his chest. “Visenya is the princess, and the heiress to the Iron Throne, until I have a son. You know better than me the type of people who dwell at court. Now I am at a loss and have yet to embrace fully what has happened, but we must investigate everything carefully. Mother, let me ask you to house my wife and daughter in your chambers for a while, they should not remain here. Visenya need to be found a new wet-nurse as soon as possible, can you take care of this?”

“I'm not a weak old woman, Rhaegar,” Rhaella smiled and kissed her son on the forehead gently. If only someone had kissed her like that and resolved all her troubles, Cersei thought, she is still so young, and she has to cope with all the obstacles herself. “I will do everything as you say.”

“Thank you,” the Prince hugged his mother with gratitude.

Cersei did not want to go anywhere, but her opinion, of course, mattered very little, and she was obliged to spend the remains of the day in the company of the Queen’s ladies in waiting, her serving maids and one of her septas, Cersei was not exactly sure which one, for she had never learned how to tell the two old women apart. Visenya was left in the care of the servants. When the baby started wailing again, she was given some cow milk to ease her hunger. Pycell had advised that this should not be used excessively, but the child had to be fed, and there was simply no other way. The Queen, leaving all of them in her boudoir, went away, accompanied by the second septa, to fulfill the requests of her son.

The ladies in waiting sighed and pretended to be horrified by what happened to Jayne, still not missing the chance to flatter the Princess. Only Lyanna Stark was silent almost all the time, and after hearing the complete story she turned pale and said with regret in her voice:

“What you tell us is unthinkable. I don’t want to believe that someone so vile lives under this roof, someone capable of killing an innocent nurse and attempting to kill a small baby. I’m so sorry that you had to endure such horrible moments. I hope everything will be clarified soon.”

_Far worse people live under this roof, silly child_ , Cersei thought, surprised by the naivety of this northern girl, but her sympathy had touched the Princess and, restraining herself from venomous remarks, she offered:

“Thank you, I also hope so.”

Looking down, Cersei continued with the role of poor frightened victim, and was indeed successful in her own opinion. Lyanna Stark did not speak another word, and the rest of the ladies never got tired of endless twittering, telling their small society loads of terrible stories, most of which seemed fake to Cersei. _Witless partlets_ , she said wickedly to herself. _All you can do is cackle. What do you know of the real fear?_ The old septa looked at all this with a sour face, as if she had eaten a plate of lemons. The Queen’s septas despised everyone in the assembled society. Only Joss Rosby was lucky enough to receive an approving nod from time to time, as she always offered them the little spoon of her flattery from the huge bowl she possessed. Apparently, the girl hoped that the servants of the Seven would report her efforts to the King.

The Queen was back only late in the evening, when the candles were lit all around the chambers to scare the darkness away. She looked tired and seemed to have aged during the hours she had been away. Dark circles lay deep under her eyes, and Rhaella did not have time to hide them properly. Exquisite tyroshi powder had crumbled off her face, exposing an ugly large yellow spot on her left cheek, which suspiciously resembled a healing bruise. She had brought a new wet-nurse with her. It was a fat ugly girl with an ever-mourning face. Her name was Keera. Her own child had died on the second day of his short life, but as soon as she held Visenya in her arms, Keera started cooing over the girl gently as if she was her own. The princess was yet so small, but she already made everyone who came near smitten with her. When she grew up, she would surely have a never-ending queue of suitors walking after her.

Rhaella dismissed her ladies in waiting, leaving only Lyanna Stark, who normally remained to read for the Queen before Rhaella called it a day and went to bed. Cersei was bored and, taking a jar of wine all to herself, settled with it at the window. Looking at the night city lurking in the darkness, she wondered what Rhaegar had managed to discover and what Elaine and Pycell had told him. Cersei hoped that the Prince would join them in the evening with the news, but he never showed up, which made her all the more restless.

Having poured enough wine into her stomach, Cersei went to sleep in the former nursery, which adjoined the Queen's chambers. Rhaegar lived there as a child, and Prince Viserys after him. Viserys, however, was removed from his mother, and now his chambers were located on the other floor, and the septas took his place in the nursery so that they could hear everything that was happening in Queen’s bedchamber through the thin wall. Today, they had the privilege to keep an eye not only on the Queen, but also on the Princess. Cersei did not speak to them and could not remove the contemptuous expression from her face. She was also favoured by the King, after all, so she was not afraid of the pair of vicious old women.

Elaine came in to help her prepare for bed, but Cersei did not dare to question the servant girl with both septas catching her every word. It seemed that Elaine was glad of this silence, she looked haggard and tired, she gazed around the room not dwelling on anything in particular, and she did not dare to meet her mistress’s eye. It’s nothing, Cersei thought, she would be able to ask everything tomorrow, when she would be finally left alone. Nevertheless, she went to bed with a heavy heart and tossed and turned for a long time on a hard and uncomfortable bed, listening to the peaceful snore of the septas.

The next morning, Cersei was invited to break her fast with the Queen, and she was incredibly glad to see Rhaegar there too. The Prince had sent both septas away with his usual calm politeness, and there remained only three of them.

“What did you manage to find out?” It was the first thing Rhaella asked while the servants were arranging bowls and plates with food in front of them. “What did Pycell say?”

Cersei was glad that it was the Queen who started with the questioning. The Princess helped herself to some cold mutton and cheese, but she was not able to swallow a bite until she heard what Rhaegar had to say.

“Pycell claims this was a heart disease,” the Prince waited until the servants left, and spoke only after that, “but at the same time he was not able to convince me that the girl was not poisoned. It could be sweetsleep or tears of Lys, or any other poison we know nothing about. What’s more, Jayne's mother says the girl never complained about her health. However, Visenya and the nurse’s own son – Terry – are both cheerful and healthy, which means that even if someone attempted to harm the little princess, he failed.”

“What are you going to do next?” Cersei asked.

“I would like you and our daughter to go to Dragonstone,” Rhaegar offered calmly, but very determinately.

“No,” Cersei exclaimed, covering her eyes with her hands. She already knew well enough how to carry herself with the Prince in order to achieve what she wanted and even make him feel guilty after. “I beg you, do not send me away! What if they have indeed tried to kill our little girl? What if it was someone from the entourage or servants, whose loyalty we have had no reason to doubt? When our daughter and I are alone at Dragonstone, without your protection, it will be easier for them to stick a knife in our backs.”

Cersei grabbed the Prince's hand and squeezed it frantically.

“I see I will never prove my point to you,” Rhaegar sighed. “I will not insist. In this case, the security of the Princess should be tightened. Visenya should not be left alone for a moment. It is necessary that all the food the wet-nurse receives is tasted beforehand. You must keep a close eye on all this.”

“Sure, my prince,” Cersei nodded hastily, still holding his hand tightly.

The rest of Cersei's day was disgustingly similar to the previous one. Time passed slowly, filled with boredom and empty chatter of silly girls. Today, Cersei was visited by her own ladies in waiting, but they were not able to provide entertainment enough for her too.

“If I saw a corpse in my bedchamber,” Sewella Moreland told her with a mixture of horror and delight, “I would die of a heart attack!”

Cersei did not doubt it. All these gullish girls seemed to her too young and naive, now they had stood a thousand leagues away from her, and they would never catch upon her again. What did they know about true fear? About the freezing horror that fetters your whole body when you are left all alone against hundreds of enemies? Nothing. They knew nothing and, perhaps, they would never know. They will marry the noble lords, give birth to their heirs, and will spend many long days busying themselves with needlework and watching over their children and grandchildren until the end of their empty lives. Cersei’s fate will be filled with the struggle for her own survival, for her place at court, for the future of her daughter. Her fight had just begun, but she will not back down, she will stand, as she promised herself, like a rock on which her family home had been once built, and even the strongest waves will not harm her.

Cersei listened half-heartedly to the buzz around her, contemplating her own thoughts, but in the evening, when Prince Rhaegar himself appeared before her, she forgot about all her hardships at once. To her utter surprise, he offered her his arm and personally guided her to the new chambers prepared for her and the little princess. Now Cersei had three rooms: her own bedchamber, a boudoir similar to the one of the Queen, where Cersei could receive visitors, and a nursery, which had access to both her bedchamber and the corridor.

“I didn’t want you to remain in the place where you’ve suffered so much terror,” Rhaegar said softly. Tilting his head slightly to the side, he studied his wife’s face carefully. How beautiful he was at that very moment. Long hair, as if consisting of millions fine silver threads, fell on his shoulders, the flame from the many candles burning in the corridor danced in his indigo eyes, and his pale face seemed to be carved from marble by the best craftsman.

“Thank you, my prince,” Cersei whispered, opening her scarlet lips.

“Forgive me,” continued Rhaegar, he spoke firmly, but very quietly, “it seems, I was inappropriately rude yesterday. I should not have used that tone on you.”

“Oh, please,” Cersei exclaimed, looking into his infinitely sad and tired eyes, “you must not ask for forgiveness. I have contemplated my actions carefully and now I see how silly and careless my behavior was.”

“Well,” Rhaegar released his arm from her grip, “I am glad that we have come to an understanding. I will leave you to rest, Your Highness. Good night!”

Cersei had no intention of letting him go so easily. She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around the Prince's neck, tilting him to her and kissing his lips greedily. Rhaegar froze, it took him some time to respond to her sudden impulse, his kiss was awkward and, it would seem, a little surprised.

“Stay, my prince,” Cersei whispered in Rhaegar’s ear, touching his skin lightly.

“Are you sure?” Rhaegar asked quietly.

“More than ever,” Cersei didn’t let him speak anymore, dragging him into the dark bedchamber. Absorbed in the undoing the clasps of his doublet, she preferred not to notice the barely audible sigh of disappointment.

When the Princess opened her eyes, her husband was no longer beside her. She could not remember a single night she spent with him, when she woke up next to him. Once at the very beginning of their marriage, when Rhaegar shared more of his thoughts and intentions with her, he had explained that he loved to watch the sunrise from the eastern wall of the Maegor’s Holdfast. Now Cersei could not remember his exact words, for then she took them only for an absurd excuse. He spoke something about bizarre colors that only nature can mix, about air, pure, like a mountain stream, about tender silence, which is broken only by sweet birdsong. But can all this be compared to waking up in the arms of a beautiful woman?

Cersei threw on an exquisite silk dressing gown and, sitting in front of a mirror, began, as usual, to comb her golden curls. The silver of the Prince and the gold of the Princess were truly a royal union. Seeing how much hair was left between the bristles of the comb, Cersei grimaced. Pycell claimed that her pregnancy and childbirth had drained a lot of energy from her body, and soon everything would return to its place, but the Princess decided to ask Elaine to get her some kind of ointment.

As if having heard her thoughts, the maid knocked softly on the door and darted into the room like a mouse. She wished Cersei a good morning quietly and set to do her work on the Princess’s dress. Poor Elaine had become only a shadow of herself within the last several days.

“What do the servants say?” Cersei asked coldly. Perhaps she would have liked to be softer, but it was not her intention to relieve Elaine from the constant fear that the Princess had skillfully planted into her heart. Only dread brings true loyalty, the price in gold can be outbid, the price in dread never.

“They speak a lot about your courage, my princess,” Elaine squeaked, “about the prince's anger. They pity poor Jayne.”

“And nothing more?” Cersei flavored the question with a note of silent threat. She did not think that Elaine was lying, but she still could show that she did not believe the girl entirely.

“Nothing more, my princess,” Elaine responded dutifully. Her hands trembled heavily, yanking a strand of Cersei's hair slightly. “I’m sorry!”

“Do you know what awaits you if you deceive or betray me?”

“Yes, my princess.”

“That's good. I would not want to mourn you along with Jayne.”

When Elaine fastened an exquisite emerald necklace gifted by Rhaegar around her neck, the Princess smiled happily at her own reflection and sent the maid away.

When Cersei's ensemble was finished, Pycell had shown up in her chambers with the correspondence addressed to her. It was harder to grasp this old man than it was Elaine. After all, he possessed a lot of power of his own, however, skillfully composed threats also worked good with the Grand Maester. Pycell handed her a letter from her lord father looking very important. Lord Tywin reported in his dry and indifferent manner that he and Jaime would attend the tourney at Harrenhall. Cersei was glad about the opportunity to see her brother, this piece of news made her forget for a brief moment about her previous grievances. It was now that she realized how terribly she missed him. If only Jaime wrote to her himself, his letter would certainly have been more fun, but for many months now she had not received a single line from her brother. Jaime had not tried to contact her since their farewell at Casterly Rock many months ago.

Cersei sighed and read on. Having been through with the formalities, her lord father urged his daughter to be cautious and talked about the need to discuss their circumstances when they all met in Harrenhall. He demanded that Cersei was not to take any action, because, in his opinion, she was only able to create something utterly stupid and make things worse.

“Did you tell my father everything?” Cersei cried, feeling the angry colour pouring out to her cheeks.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Pycell grated, “I promised lord Tywin to keep an eye on you.”

“Did you spy on me?” Cersei was ready to burst with indignation. She was sure that she had succeeded in making the Grand Maester her man, but instead she still remained in the power of lord Tywin.

“I had to make sure that you wouldn’t do anything stupid,” the Grand Maester answered dryly, and Cersei did not fail to miss open impudence in his voice.

“And what about the thing which happened the day before yesterday?” Cersei asked surprised.

“It happened with the permission of Lord Tywin. However, I am afraid he will be upset to learn about how it went.”

Cersei snorted. This was to be expected. Whatever she did, her father would always consider her stupid and follow her every move, lord Tywin would force her to do as he commanded, not caring to hear his daughter's opinion, not believing in her and her brilliant mind and abilities, which she had already managed to manifest at court.

The Princess kicked Pycell out and went to see her daughter. It was unusual to part with Visenya, although now it was only a wall that separated them. However, Cersei had to admit that the absence of multiple people from her bedchamber served undoubtedly in her favor. The Princess was not surprised at seeing Rhaegar in the nursery. He was dressed in his elegant court attire: a black velvet camisole with silver buttons, each of them bore an engraved three-headed dragon of the royal house, and a black silk shirt. A thin silver rim decorated with large rubies crowned the Prince’s head. However, he carried no weapon upon him, and this surprised Cersei a little. Rhaegar sat on the very edge of the chair, his back unnaturally straight, and watched with concern as Keera swaddled a cheerfully babbling baby.

“Good morning,” he said distantly upon seeing his wife.

“My prince?” Cersei fixed her inquiring look at her husband.

“His Grace the king has expressed a wish to meet his granddaughter,” Rhaegar sighed wearily.

Cersei did not answer, and the Prince did not consider it necessary to add anything else. He got up, took his daughter in his arms and, gesturing Cersei to follow him, went out. As soon as she approached her husband, Cersei felt how intense he was. His lips were pinched with displeasure, his eyes were squinted, but from the outside he looked more regal than ever: elegant, delicate and seemingly unbending.

Having closed the door behind them, they met with ser Arthur Dayne, who was guarding the Princess's chambers. His white armor was polished, and his cloak sparkled with white against the red walls and black marble floor. He bowed to Cersei, and then spoke to Rhaegar about something. The Princess did not hear their conversation, for the Prince and the guard went a little ahead, leaving her alone to trail behind them.

Cersei was afraid that the whole court was assembled to meet them in the throne room, but to her relief, she found a rather small round there consisting of the King and the Queen with Prince Viserys and several close attendants, mostly the members of the King’s Small Council, including ser Gerold Hightower, whose white armor gleamed in the dim light of the throne room. Cersei wanted to speed up her pace, but Rhaegar grabbed her hand and shook his head slightly. He walked slowly and majestically, as befits the heir to the throne. Cersei was frightened that this would anger the King, but she obeyed her husband.

“Here you are finally!” Ayeris snapped loudly like an old raven when the Princess and the Prince with their daughter in his arms stopped in front of the Iron Throne. Arthur Dayne stepped aside and was lost between the dragon skulls.

“Good day, Your Grace,” Rhaegar said calmly and bowed to his father. Cersei, having come to her senses, curtsied.

“Well, my children have come to please me,” the King grunted. Cersei could not see Aerys’ face, but it seemed to her that it was distorted by a sneer. “So, I will share my own joy with them in return. Your Queen is with child, and soon the Iron Throne will have another heir.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Rhaegar glanced at his mother with concern, but she only grinned lovingly at him and bowed her head in response.

“Congratulations,” Cersei said faintly, squeezing out a smile.

“I’ve heard you named your daughter after the older sister of Aegon the Conqueror?” The King asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rhaegar confirmed.

“One can only hope that she will not disgrace such a glorious name,” Aerys snorted.

Cersei remained respectfully silent and was afraid to look at the King. From the corner of her eye she saw that the Prince's gaze was fixed in front of himself, as if he was in some other place entirely.

“Will you not hold your granddaughter, Your Grace?” Rhaella asked quietly.

“What?” Aerys shouted, as if he had not heard the Queen's words. “She stinks of lions. Rhaegar, as soon as the girl is weaned, lady Felicia will be responsible for her upbringing. She will be reared together with Viserys.”

All sounds died, Cersei froze in her place, all her insides cringed, fearing what would follow. She heard the Prince exhale heavily, saw him bite his lip so hard that he protruded a drop of blood, as he tried to hold the dangerous words within.

“No,” Rhaegar said firmly, his iron voice broke the silence which hanged in the throne room into a thousand tiny pieces.

“Do you dare to disobey your king?” Aerys hissed.

“Yes,” was the only response Rhaegar managed. Cersei was horrified by what her husband had just done, she wanted to object, to take his words back, if necessary, to fall on her knees before Aerys and pray that the King should pardon the Prince’s rashness, but Rhaegar tightened his grip on her hand painfully, not allowing her to utter a single word.

“As long as your daughter sucks the wet-nurse’s breast, you still have time to change your mind,” Aerys said displeasedly. “However, you have disappointed me today, Rhaegar. Get out of my sight with your lionspawn!”

With the pleading look in her eyes, Cersei begged her husband to stay restrained, and at least now he chose to act prudently. There was still time, she could still talk to him, urge him to do as the King had bid them. She would go to Aerys personally and beseech him to forgive her husband, no matter what it cost her. She was ready to give Visenya over to lady Felicia or any other tutor, if only the girl retained her rights to the Iron Throne.

The Prince and the Princess retreated in an overwhelming silence, being followed only by the sound of their own steps. Visenya was asleep in her father’s arms and sniffled quietly from time to time during the audience, not realizing what battles were fought over her.

“You know, Rhaegar,” the King’s voice came after them, “I can put Viserys on the throne, he was always more helpful than you.”

Terrified, Cersei turned around, looking at the happy face of the youngest Prince. The boy, of course, smiled, rejoicing that he had received the long-awaited praise from his father, and at the same time not completely understanding what really stood behind it. There was no malice or insolent superiority in his smile, but Cersei hated it with all her heart. No, she would not allow anyone to take Visenya’s place on the Iron Throne, neither Viserys, nor the child that sat inside the Queen’s womb. Her daughter will become queen, and Cersei was ready to go all the lengths for this.


	15. The Plotter

Having ridden into the courtyard of his ancestral castle, the lord was finally able to take a deep breath and stop suffocating from the icy winter wind that was blowing him straight in the face and penetrated into his mouth and nostrils, not allowing him to breathe normally. In winter and early spring, the cold winds rushing from the raging storms of the sea were especially violent, but the castle’s high walls protected its inhabitants from them, not allowing the storms to disturb the family living there. The lord jumped off the horse deftly, feeling a new surge of strength, despite the whole day spent on the road. Throwing the reins to the one of the stable hands, the lord set off for the great house at once.

As he had expected, the lord found his wife in her rooms busy with needlework. He was not surprised in the slightest. It seemed that she had never left these rooms at all as if she were confined there with her ever-present embroidery.

“My lord,” she got up from her seat and greeted him puzzled and bewildered, “I did not expect your arrival so soon.”

“Last time I didn’t find you here,” the lord approached her and touched her hand dryly with his lips. It was necessary to present his intentions in such a way that she believed them, although lord’s wife, in his own opinion, was not in possession of enough wit, which could have allowed her to suspect something.

“Well,” she smiled elegantly, pleased with his flattery, albeit too obvious, “now you have succeeded.”

His wife kept staring at the lord, expecting him to continue with something else, but the lord had nothing to say. After hesitating for a short while, he decided not to procced with the conversation and, bowing to his wife, headed for the way out.

“If it ever interests you,” his wife threw the words at his back, “then your son, your legitimate son, is walking in the yard with the nanny.”

“Thank you,” the lord turned around, frozen at the very door. His wife glanced at him with a mixture of provocation and anger. For a moment he felt sorry for her, but he rejected that feeling almost at once. It was not his obligation to love her, to be near her for hours, admire her ugly embroidery and chat about all sorts of nonsense. He had never refused her anything, for all the years of their marriage he had never raised a hand at her, and, most importantly, he had planted a child inside her. Speaking of all the rest, he had had enough of it. Parents had already chosen a wife for him when the maester taught him letters, but they could not have chosen whom he loved, even he himself could have never done it, because that was only in the will of the gods.

The lord descended into the courtyard. Both of his sons chased the dog together, giggling gaily and ignoring the cries of the nanny. The lord watched the children for some time, wondering if the boys would stay friendly with each other when they grow up and find out that one of them is to become a lord and inherit his father’s castle, and the other is to receive almost nothing. Perhaps he had spoiled his bastard too much. When the child is old enough, he should become a squire to some worthy knight. By showing himself off, the boy would be able to count on something in the future. Beta had given him several hints that she wanted him to legitimize their son, but the lord was not up to doing this. Let her thank him that the child is brought up together with his rightful heir. Had not he already given her a lot? Any other mistress of a noble lord could not count on such generosity.

The lord stood in the shadows, trying to remain unnoticed, however, the dog fleeing from the boys rushed right in his direction and crashed into him. The boys did not have time to stop, slipping on the wet mud the recent rain had left, and soon a heap of laughing little children and a screeching dog presented itself before the lord.

“Back on your feet, now,” the lord said coldly.

Hearing their father’s voice, the boys jumped up at once and stretched out in front of the lord, as if the soldiers before their commander, and only the dog continued to squeal merrily, not understanding why the game had stopped so abruptly.

“Hello, father,” his sons said in unison. The older one wanted to hug the lord, but he stepped aside, not wanting to be stained with dirt, which now covered the clothes of both children.

“Is that how you greet your father,” the lord shook his head. “All soaked in mud and behaving like bumpkins, not obeying your nanny. Are those the things I’ve taught you?”

“No, father,” they answered in chorus again. The lord noticed that the bastard — still a toddler — was about to cry.

“Go home, get changed and think properly about your conduct,” the lord snapped, sending his sons away. “I'll talk to you later.”

If he hadn’t had some affairs to attend to at home, the lord wouldn’t have come here at all, but would have stayed in King’s Landing, and then would have travelled with the King straight to Harrenhall. It was dangerous to arouse any, even the most insignificant, suspicion in Aerys, who had the ability to see the traitor in anyone, but the lord didn’t care. The Mad King was now occupied by the non-existent plot of Prince Rhaegar. The lord had kindly informed his sovereign about it himself. He voiced almost nothing directly, only made small hints, but this little spark was enough to light a big fire, and now the King, who had long been confined within the walls of the Red Keep and had not even attended his heir’s wedding, was going to show up at the tourney at Harrenhall to prevent his son conspiring with the lords behind his back.

It was announced to the court that Aerys would honour the tourney with his presence in order to celebrate the engagement of Prince Viserys to Princess Arianne of Dorne, which was to be made public at the welcome feast. The little Princess would be brought from Dorne by her kin for this exact purpose. However, close attendants were already whispering that the King was going to Harrenhall in order to keep an eye on Prince Rhaegar and not allow him to hold council with all the influential lords of the Seven Kingdoms. The lord knew that there was no conspiracy at all, and the Crown Prince, although loved by the people, did not have enough influence and means to make a coup. The King, however, easily believed in such an opportunity, for he deeply wished to find any flaw in his heir.

The lord exchanged a few words with the castellan of his castle, inquiring about everyday affairs, about the amount of supplies and the performance of the servants, and then, satisfied with the answers, he went up to his chambers. Wanting to wash off sweat and dust from the long road, he ordered the bath to be filled and plunged into it with pleasure, surrendering to the warming caresses of hot water. The lord closed his eyes, imagining how the tender fingers of the woman he dreamed of every night touched his hot reddened skin. He almost felt her gently stroking his face, her soft fingers run over his shoulders and chest, tickling him, flirting with him and going down even lower, causing his whole body to strain in anticipation. The lord bit his lip and exhaled heavily, truly feeling the female hands touch his manhood.

He opened his eyes abruptly and looked at the woman standing in front of him. Instead of the pure violet eyes of his beloved, those gazing at him with utter lust had too much of grey mud in them. Beta smiled prettily at him.

“Why didn't you tell me you have come?” She whispered in his ear. Her hands continued to caress him skillfully.

“Because I didn’t want to see you,” the lord hissed. He would have liked to push her away, but could not, for his own body was already in the grip of burning insatiable desire, which begged for the immediate satisfaction.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Beta smirked, but the lord hadn’t heard her.

He closed his eyes again, not wanting to look at Beta's aging face and her smug grin. He thought only of the hands caressing his flesh, and imagined other hands, those that would have been softer and finer. When the pleasure finally came over him, he barely restrained himself from screaming her name, but instead he let out only a deep groan. Opening his eyes, he glanced at Beta again, and he felt disgusted by her and by himself.

“Get out, now” he ordered her.

“But ...” Her full vicious lips opened in surprise.

“I said, out!” The lord shouted and hit the water’s surface with his hand with such force that the small drops of it flew in different directions. Beta startled, her face fell, making two deep wrinkles, descending along her nose to her lips, even more noticeable. Her eyes flashed hostilely, she got up and walked away without saying a word.

The lord forgot about her at the very moment when the door was slammed behind her with anger. While he was having lunch of a capon fried in honey and changing clothes, the sky outside the window began to darken. Its colour changed from dark gray to dark purple, resembling now the colour her eyes acquired when she was angry. Then the blackness grew deeper and deeper, the violet disappeared completely, and the darkness became impenetrable. The lord's heart fluttered joyfully in anticipation of imminent happiness when he finally pulled his dark gray woolen cloak from the chest and, hiding his form from head to toe, secretly left the castle.

As soon as the lord stepped out from under the cover of the thick walls of his family stronghold, a cold, evil wind slammed him painfully in the face, as if slapping him. The lord, however, did not pay attention to this, and only bowed his head lower, and tried to make a better cover for the lantern so that the wind would not inadvertently blow out the flame that dimly illuminated his way. The lord trod cautiously, afraid to slip on the path, eroded by rains, although he wanted to run headlong. His hand, that was holding the lantern was petrified, the wind had enough force to climb under a warm cloak, piercing through his body like a valyrian blade.

When he knocked on the door of the house hiding aside, the knock came out weak, but he was heard at once. The door was opened by Lionel, he eyed the lord from head to toe with a displeased look, making it clear that he was not happy with the guest, however, having stepped aside, he let the unwanted visitor in. It was not the first time that the lord thought that Lionel was jealous of Daella and was saddened by how the lord had violated their solitude. For a moment, envy of Lionel thrust deep into lord’s heart, for the servant was blessed with the opportunity to remain constantly beside Daella, see her face, hear her loud voice when the lord himself managed to visit the woman he loved so rarely. However, the lord decided upon reflection that he tolerated this separation for her own sake, his role in the ascension of her son to the Iron Throne would be much more significant than the modest part of some servant, and Daella's gratitude would know the boundaries no longer.

The small room had become much nicer and more comfortable since the lord had visited here for the first and the last time. The flames in the hearth danced merrily, casting the reflections of yellow and red on the walls and ceiling, a colorful curtain covered the square window, a lace tablecloth lay on the wooden table, instead of a thick layer of dust, the old, roughly built chairs disappeared completely and were replaced by the cozy armchairs.

In one of them, standing close to the hearth, Daella sat, wrapped in a warm shawl. Her hands stroked a huge belly, and half-closed eyes watched the bizarre dance of flames. Her face seemed to be plumper, her skin gleamed with sweat, but she still did not seem to the lord less beautiful than before. His gaze travelled to her hair, and he was surprised to find that they had turned black from silver-gold. This saddened the lord a little, although he understood that, perhaps, necessity had prompted her to take such a step.

“My lady,” the lord muttered, taking a step in her direction.

Daella shuddered, as if his words had awakened her from deep sleep, she looked up at the lord and smiled at him welcomingly.

“Hello, my friend,” Daella held out her hand, and he touched it with his lips passionately. Lionel retreated into the shadows but remained in the room. “I did not expect to see you so soon.”

“Usually I don’t come home so often,” the lord smiled, “but I couldn’t resist the chance, for I wanted to see you.”

“That is very kind of you, my lord,” Daella's smile widened, she motioned him to an armchair. “Please sit down, do not stand like a dummy. Wine?”

“Thank you, but no,” the lord shook his head. He was drunk enough only of being in her company. Following her invitation, he dragged the armchair closer to her and adjusted himself in it comfortably. “How are you settled here? I’ve noticed that you have changed.” He bestowed another regretful glance at her hair.

“As you can see yourself, I have enough,” Daella looked around the room, “dear Lionel helps me with everything, but I thank you for your concern. And this,” she touched her black curls, “I'm afraid my looks would have seemed too catchy in the area, and I would not want to be locked up in this house for fear of drawing too much attention to my person.”

“I wish so very much that you could walk the streets without fear, with your head held up high proudly, and your beautiful hair sparkling in the sun,” the lord said hotly. “I will do everything to make this happen sooner or later.”

“Yes,” she nodded fiercely, “I would like that too, I dream about it. But your main concern, my faithful friend, is not me, but him!”

Daella took his hand in hers and pressed it to her belly. This move of hers excited him so much that he was surprised how heavy his heart was pounding. The lord was not able to feel anything except the roundness of Daella's belly and the warmth of her hands covering his own, but this touch inspired him and gave him strength. He looked up from their intertwined fingers and gazed into her eyes, but he did not find there the tenderness similar to his own, only determination and faith.

“I remember my promise, my lady,” he said quietly.

“Have you brought any news from the capital?” Daella asked.

“Yes,” the lord said excitedly, “yes, I’ve brought you some important news.”

“Why are you not telling them then?” She exclaimed, releasing his hand. “Do speak!”

Of course, his person did not interest her, she only wanted to know what was happening in King’s Landing, she wanted him to voice not his excitement upon meeting her again, but the plans that he must come up with. The lord sighed heavily. Well, he would do just that, if she so desired, if only for the sake of bringing her some joy.

“One of my servants managed to take a peek at a few lines in the letter that Grand Maester Pycell wrote. He visited the old man to take the dreamwine for my good sleep. The Grand Maester tried to hide the parchment quickly under other papers, but my Pate was quicker. I feel sorry for him, he was a good clever boy,” the lord sighed. Let Daella understand what he was ready to do for her.

“You ...” she did not finish, but the lord understood the unvoiced question.

“He stumbled and twisted his neck,” the lord said coldly. “You know, my lady, only death can guarantee silence. Even a person with a tongue torn out is able to blab a secret if someone wants it from him.”

Daella grabbed his shoulder suddenly, and the lord thought that he had scared her gentle heart, however, following her gaze, he realized that she was looking straight at the silent window. The lord also glanced that way but saw nothing beyond the curtain except the square of blackness.

“It seemed to me that there was a shadow simmering behind,” Daella muttered through trembling lips.

The lord was about to get up from his seat, but Lionel turned out to be quicker and disappeared behind the door at once. While he was gone, a tense, frightened silence hung in the room. It seemed that soon Lionel would return and push the captured king’s informant in front of him. The lord's heart thumped heavily in his chest, and his hands went cold and were covered with sticky sweat. Did he bring a traitor with him? Judging by Daella's pale face, she thought about the same thing.

Lionel really returned quite soon, but there was nobody with him.

“Nothing, my lady. It’s just your eyes playing tricks on you,” he said, and disappeared again into the shadows.

Nevertheless, it would have been easier for the lord if Lionel had indeed brought someone, for now there still lingered the possibility that he had missed the enemy, who continued to hide in the dark and weave his vile intrigues against them. This notion continued to gnaw at the lord and did not allow him to calm down. Daella, however, breathed a sigh of relief, and the lord tried to follow her example, although he persisted to glance occasionally towards the window.

“So, what was in these lines your boy saw?” Daella asked, returning to the interrupted conversation.

After a little hesitation, the lord told her the contents of the letter, savouring the impression his words made. It seemed to be the first time she was genuinely surprised.

“This message pleases me,” Daella said, “but I still do not understand how it can help our case. It will only make the throne under the Targaryens stumble even further.”

“I thought about it a lot, my lady,” the lord barely held back a smile, anticipating his triumph in her eyes. Perhaps now, after speaking up he would earn a little more of her attention, a kiss on the cheek perhaps or even a light peck on the lips. The things he was going to bring forth were not worthy of less. “And I have some thoughts on the matter.”

Seeing her eyes thirsty for what he had to say, he relayed his ideas to her. He pondered over them many times while in King's Landing, and later on the way home, so now it was easy for him to lay out the cards in front of her. When finished, he smiled, expecting her enthusiasm, but Daella grew tense and silent.

“I like what you’ve told here, my friend,” she finally said, “but the success of your plan depends on too many things. Moreover, you’ve missed one significant point. My son is about to be born very soon.”

“You are mistaken, my lady, I haven’t missed anything,” the lord said slightly offended and gave a detailed answer to her remark, adding at the end: “We don’t have an army, it’s also pointless to look for support among the grand lords, as all of them pursue their own goals. We have to wait a few years, and no one will ever be able to notice. Are you ready for this?”

“Yes,” Daella nodded coldly, and the lord was ready to swear that the icy flame danced in her eyes, “we have waited too long,” steel rang in Daella's voice. “I remember my childhood pretty well, my lord, they say I had a happy one, however, it had ended so early that it seems I’ve never had that happiness. My father died when I was just into my third year, and my mother returned to her brother's house, for she had nowhere else to go. My uncle served in a sellswords company, so I can hardly recall those rare days when he was at home. His return, however, was always a reason for great joy, for he brought gold and various gifts with him. He especially loved pampering me, and my chest was full of beautiful dresses and jewelry. I am ashamed to admit it, but I can hardly recollect my uncle's face. It seemed that my mother and I had finally found our corner, and nothing or no one else would ever disturb us, but the gods designed our fates in a different way. My uncle was brutally murdered by his own cousin, they never told me how exactly this happened, my mother only mentioned that the scene was so terrible that it was impossible to describe it in words. It was said that our cousin wanted something that belonged to my uncle, but the true reason for their fight was that my uncle stole our family sword from our cousin, the same one that I showed you the last time we’ve met. Secretly, uncle handed the sword to my mother, and when he was killed, my mother decided that now cousin would come for us. Having taken only the most necessary things with us, some jewelry and coin, we went on the run, and never stopped. We haven’t dwelled anywhere for long, moving from place to place, making no acquaintances, and hardly talking to anyone. We changed our names so often that we almost forgot our real ones. We have quickly run out of coin, the jewelry had to be sold, but it was not enough to last long, and we had to find work. Together with my mother, I washed and repaired clothes for the noblemen. We have learned about the death of my mother’s cousin much later than he fell, slain by the sword of the glorious knight. There was no one else to come to us for a sword, and we were finally able to come to a halt and look around. At that time, we have ended up in Volantis, for some time we had no roof above us, but then we saved up some money for the tiniest room in the dirtiest and darkest corner of the city. I thought then that the gods had already sent all possible misfortunes on me, but this was before I fell into the hands of the slave traders. I won’t tell you everything, my friend, for it’s too long, and I don’t want to remember it. I can only say that after some time I’ve ended up in a pillow house in Lys.”

This revelation had astounded the lord so much that he could hardly hide his horror. How unfair the life was to her! If only he had found her earlier, he would have married her, and she would have belonged to him alone, no other man would have dared to touch her beautiful body.

“I see you are surprised, my lord,” Daella shook her head sadly. “Although it was to be expected. One rich Pentoshi man bought me out of there and made me his concubine. He seemed to have loved me. At my request, he had tracked down my mother, and then offered me to become his wife. Of course, I could not refuse him after all that he had done for me. Although I didn’t have ardent feelings for my betrothed, my mother and I were utterly dependent on him and his coin. He promised that he would cast the Iron Throne at my feet, and our children would become kings. It would take a long time to achieve this dream, but he set to work zealously and believing in success. Mother soon left us, the difficult years broke her, and in the end, she was always ill. And then the vile men took my dear husband from me, but I’ve already told you about this,” Daella sighed heavily. “In my short life I have already experienced so much most people do not face for an entire century. Do you think I won’t wait a few years? I am ready to wait even longer, it is only a pity that I cannot be called the mother of my boy.”

“There is no other way,” the lord shrugged.

“Yes, I know,” Daella said firmly. “Will you stay here for a long time? The child will soon be born, and you could be the first to meet him.”

“I would very much like that,” the lord said sincerely, “however, I must arrive at Harrenhall by the beginning of the tourney. In our position, the king’s suspicion cannot be aroused.”

“You're right, my lord,” Daella nodded. “We should be careful.”

“But you can send me the news,” the lord said hopefully. “Give me a piece of parchment.”

Lionel, slipping out of the shadow, left the room and, after a moment, returned with a blank scroll of parchment, a quill and ink. The lord scribbled a few lines and held out the parchment to Daella.

“There are three different notes,” he explained. “Send the first if a boy is born, the second is for a girl, and the third one tells that something bad has happened.”

“Thank you,” Daella rolled up the scroll and hid it on her bosom.

“You know, serving you is a joy to me,” the lord rose. “Now I have to go. Farewell!”

“Goodbye, my friend,” Daella held out her hand again for a kiss. The lord was not awarded more.

“Wish me luck,” he asked.

“May the Gods be on your side,” Daella whispered, “and let the Stranger stay away from you and close to our enemies.”


	16. Eddard I

“Ned, do you think Arthur Dayne will enter the lists?” Benjen asked with admiration, trying to strain the horse, which strove to rush into a gallop.

“He will,” Eddard nodded.

“And the Dragon Prince?” His younger brother persisted.

“Him as well, according to what I’ve heard,” Ned muttered.

“Do you think ser Arthur will show me his sword if I ask?”

“How should I know?” Ned shrugged, frowning in displeasure. “However, it seems to me that the knight of the Kingsguard has more important things to attend to than to entertain a young, thoughtless boy.”

“Lya and Bran must have already met him,” Ben continued to chat. The younger Stark was so keen on talking about the upcoming tourney and the valiant knights that he even forgot to take offense at being called a thoughtless boy. “I wonder if they are already there or will we arrive earlier?”

Eddard left his brother’s question unanswered, but this did not affect Benjen's talkativeness in any way. His younger brother had not been silent for a single moment since Ned with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn had met with him at the Trident, after they had descended along the high road from the Eyrie. The youngest Stark was traveling with a small party of guards along the kingsroad from Winterfell. As soon as they hugged and greeted each other, Benjen began to bombard his older brother with numerous questions and prattle about the tourney prospects of certain knights.

“I will put a golden dragon on ser Arthur,” Ben said. “And you, Ned?”

“I'm not as venturesome,” Eddard dismissed him. “And I advise you against wasting your money on bets, Benjen.”

“Father allowed me,” the younger brother protested. “And you, Robert, are you going to bet?”

“Unless I put it on myself,” Robert roared with laughter. “I will beat everyone in a melee, have no doubt.”

“Maybe,” Benjen agreed. “Maybe I'll put it on you, Rob. Look,” the younger Stark exclaimed joyfully, staring in front of him, “I can see the Harrenhal towers already, we are almost there.”

Benjen, however, was mistaken, like so many before him. Harren the Black’s castle was so huge that it was visible from afar, however, this was what confused inexperienced travelers, as if some ancient deceitful magic was hidden inside the castle walls. Seeing the towers of Harrenhal looming ahead, journeyers thought that they had very little left to go till they reached the castle, and how disappointed they were to attain the black stronghold only after almost two more days on the road.

The young men, however, were not restrained by anything, their horses were speedy and fresh, and they reached Harrenhal by the next evening. The tent camp, which sprawled at the foot of the black castle, looked like a small busy town and seemed enormously huge to Eddard. Ned had never been to a tourney where so many guests were assembled at the same time. In the open field near the castle one could see tents of different colours and sizes belonging to various lords and knights, next to each tent, bright banners fluttered with anticipation. One could spot the Rose of the Tyrells – the lords of the Reach, and the Towers of the Freys from the Riverlands, the golden lion of the Lannisters roared proudly on the field, crimson like blood, the sun of the Martells – princes of Dorne – shone, towering above all the others. Ned also noticed the coats of arms coming from the northern lands: the roaring bear of the Mormonts, the black longaxes of the Dustins, the merman of the Manderlys, and many others, tossed in the wind proudly.

The torches were lit near the tents when the darkness fell, and the tents themselves shone from the inside like magic lanterns. The guests of the humbler station started fires, the hedge knights gathered around them to warm up and cook dinner for themselves. It seemed that all the knights and lords of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, from Sunspear to the Wall, had come to try their luck on this tourney. After all, the prize that awaited the winner was truly generous, for a very long time such riches had not been offered on tourneys.

In a kaleidoscope of tents and banners, Ned did not detect the black and red banner with the three-headed dragon. The King had not arrived yet, which meant Brandon and Lyanna also had not been here, for they had to travel among the entourage accompanying the Targaryens. Ned was eager to see his brother and sister and ask them around, but now he was surrounded by brief acquaintances or people utterly unknown to him. Having called his brother boring Benjen had ran off to watch the puppet show, and Robert went to Harrenton. According to the Storm Lord, he intended to try the ale they brewed here to get a good rest from the road, but Ned suspected that his friend was interested in places of a completely different nature. Lord Arryn, however, disappeared, as soon as they had pitched up the tent and exchanged a few greetings with the folk they knew.

Pondering what to do with himself, Ned decided to wander in the direction of the stalls. However, when he was turning around, he hit someone's shoulder accidentally. This unexpected clash knocked Eddard off balance, and he did not manage to think of an apology on such a short notice, and when he perceived finally whom he had pushed, his mouth went even drier, and his thoughts scattered in different directions, like nimble mice.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Ned muttered at last, feeling his ears flaming, as if a dragon had breathed out its fire on them.

“It is me, who should beg your pardon,” the girl replied cheerfully, exposing a row of even white teeth. “I never notice where I’m heading,” Eddard felt a hint of condescension in her smile.

The girl continued to grin, looking at him and as if expecting something. Her thick dark hair was assembled in an intricate hairstyle, which Ned had never seen before. In the darkness, everything in her seemed almost black to him: a fancy dress, sewn in a foreign manner, the skin that betrayed a southerner, and the eyes with mischievous sparks swaying in a merry dance.

“Well, let’s assume we are both to blame,” Ned managed to say, shamefully realizing that he was studying her frame too openly.

A tall and equally black-haired young man, who stood behind the girl’s back, whispered something in her ear, which made her laugh very prettily. Surely, she laughed at his stupidity and clumsiness. What a fool he was, he should have run away from here as fast as he can! However, his feet grew into the ground, as two mighty trees. Only after that he had paid some of his attention to the companions of the girl: in addition to the young man, who was also peculiarly dressed and stared at Ned as if he was some strange beast, she had another young lady with her, beautiful, but still inferior to her friend. Her eyes seemed sad, and she did not join in the fun of her companions.

“As you say, my lord,” the girl with laughing eyes giggled. Continuing to smile, she made a curtsy and withdrew, accompanied by her friends.

Ned remained standing in the middle of the tent camp, like a milestone, staring after the girl. Before having finally disappeared into the darkness, like a mysterious ghost from the tales of old Nan, she turned around and looked at Ned with a teasing glance. He turned away at once, pretending that he was standing here for a reason and was looking now to the side on some very important matter. The girl whispered something merrily in her friend’s ear and off she went, leaving Eddard in complete confidence that now these three were amusing themselves at his stake.

Ned had no wish to go anywhere any longer. Pouting on himself, he went to his tent and lay down to sleep. Dreams, however, were in no hurry to embrace him, and the girl with laughing eyes got stuck deep inside his head. Ned tossed and turned, listening involuntarily to roars of laughter, drunken shouts and funny songs that penetrated the thin walls of the tent. A few hours later Benjen came in, he deliberately produced loud sniffs, stamped his feet and dropped things that fell under his hands in order to wake his brother. Apparently, Ben was eaten by desire to tell him something, but Ned pretended to be fast asleep, and refused to open his eyes, no matter how zealous Benjen was. In the end, the younger brother calmed down, and after a few moments Ned heard his even breathing.

Hoster Tully arrived the next morning. He had set to attend the tournament at the very last moment. Ned suspected that the main reason for this decision was the desire to show Brandon his eldest daughter once again. By the will of lord Hoster and lord Rickard, Brandon was supposed to marry Catelyn Tally, however, the wedding had to be postponed due to the King summoning the older Stark to the court. Probably, lord Hoster was very justifiably afraid that a round dance of sophisticated courteous women could turn the head of feather-pated Brandon and chose not to miss the opportunity to remind him of his sweet and obedient Catelyn.

The courtesy and sense of duty inherent in Eddard compelled him to spend the whole morning in the company of lord Hoster and his daughters. Lord Tully was pleased with Ned, but his manner and address indicated that he did not expect anything less. Ned felt uncomfortable under the gaze of both the quiet, often embarrassed Catelyn, and the excessively frisky Lisa, who was unable to stay silent for more than a slightest moment. Her speech at the same time could not be called too smart. Having had lunch with the Tully family, Ned escaped, having come up with some urgent matters.

The King appeared only a day later, just before the start of the tournament, as befits a ruling monarch. Ned would have preferred to sit out in the tent until the turmoil around the King’s entrance settled down, but etiquette demanded that he, as the son of the Warden of the North and the grand lord of Westeros, should show up in the courtyard of the castle to meet Aerys Targaryen. And Benjen would never have allowed his older brother to miss such an event. The younger Stark visited such a grand tourney for the first time, because the northerners never favoured jousting too much. He wanted to take a closer look at the southern lords and ladies, and most importantly, he wished to take the very tiniest peek at the knights of the Kingsguard. They were the only topic of Benjen’s unstoppable blabbing in the recent days.

The guards positioned on top of the castle wall had noticed the approach of the royal procession from afar, and the heralds had announced the news to the castle and the tent camp. Ned sighed wearily, pouring into a river of tightly pressed bodies, which rushed towards the walls of Harrenhal. He did not particularly enjoy being inside a crowd, as staying in its very core reminded him of a drowning person, who was drawn deeper and deeper into a particularly dangerous whirlpool. Now they all walked together: noble lords and ladies, their bannermen, impoverished petty lords and hedge knights, but only a few of them would get a place in the castle courtyard, where they could bow their heads in reverence to His Grace. The rest will have to huddle along the sides of the road, climb trees or walls in order to see at least the silver head of the King.

“Seven hells!” Robert roared in Ned’s ear. “I'd rather have a good two hours sleep than take part in this.”

Ned said nothing, only shrugged.

“Why should I stay here?” Robert complained, pushing forward through an avalanche of people. Ned prudently followed Baratheon along an already cleared path and pulled Benjen, who never stopped gaping around, after him. “Pray tell, what a thing of great importance it is to bow to the madman!”

“Hush,” Ned shouted at him, tugging at the sleeve of his doublet made in the black and yellow colours of the House Baratheon. The speeches that Robert stupidly delivered, although true, were dangerous. Lord Varys – specially requested by the King from Pentos – was worth his salt. Perhaps the spies who served the master of whisperers, often called the Spider behind his back, were somewhere here in the crowd, where it was easy to hide, and much could be heard.

Robert turned around to face Ned and made a grimace but fell silent. Passing the castle gates, both finally breathed a sigh of relief. Soon Jon Arryn joined them – thoughtful and silent – and they all stood waiting, along with representatives of other noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned was searching for a black-haired girl with laughing eyes among the crowd but could not find her. Probably, she was not there at all, or she was somewhere far away from them in the company of her sad friend and impudent companion. Probably, now they were laughing with him at something very funny.

Driving such unpleasant thoughts away, like a flock of annoying flies, Ned glanced at the tourney’s host – lord Walter Whent. He stood, straightened up awkwardly, beside his four sons and a very young daughter. A gentle breeze that managed to penetrate the walls of Harrenhal ruffled his loose hair. Lord Whent was unnaturally pale, and Ned thought that he would never desire to be in lord Whent’s boots. It’s anything but a joy to accommodate the Mad King in one’s own home.

A rumble came from the distance, as if an avalanche of deadly stones was rushing from the mountain peak, and now was approaching them. The buzz was growing, and soon it was possible to discern the cheers of the crowd gathered outside the walls. Finally, a procession led by two kingsguards rode into the courtyard. One of them, apparently Oswell, the brother of lord Whent, dismounted, went to the lord of Harrenhal and hugged him tightly. The second white cloak gave the reins of his destrier to the stable hand and stepped aside.

“Ned,” Benjen whispered in admiration, leaning forward. “This is Arthur Dayne! Look, there’s Dawn on his shoulder!”

Eddard did not answer, he only looked menacingly at his younger brother for him to remain silent. Following the guards, two wagons drove in, accompanied by the Targaryen household guards and four other white knights. Along with the soldiers, a young man rode in on horseback, dressed in a black doublet embroidered with bright scarlet threads. On his shoulders lay a traveling cloak with a three-headed dragon of the House Targaryen. Long silver hair, gathered in a braid, made it easy to recognize the Dragon Prince. The Prince's horse – a majestic destrier of a rare suit – possessed a blue-black skin and silver mane and tail to match its owner.

Rhaegar Targaryen jumped off his horse with ease and headed for the second wagon, his every move was full of elegance and grace. Leaning down, he opened a wooden door and offered his hand to the girl who wore a dress of the colour of Dornish red wine, her golden hair glowed like real precious metal. Cersei Lannister, now Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, winner of the Dragon Prince’s hand in marriage. Ned had never seen her before, but had heard about her a lot, and now was convinced with his own eyes that the rumors about Cersei were true. The Prince and Princess were both unusually beautiful, but their faces seemed utterly bored too Ned. Rhaegar was sad and thoughtful, Cersei was angry, but both tried to squeeze out polite smiles.

While Rhaegar helped his wife, King Aerys and the young prince Viserys got out of the first wagon, which was richer decorated. The King’s apparel was rich, but untidy, his dark eyes sparkled with an unhealthy glitter. The breeze conveyed the unpleasant smell of a man whose body had not been in contact with water for days, and Ned grimaced. The face of the youngest prince seemed childishly pretty, it bore such an unpleasant expression of complacency and triumph that it was impossible to be touched by this child. Aerys, dragging his youngest son behind him, walked uneasily towards lord Whent, without even a small glance at the crowded nobility, the Prince and the Princess followed him. Rhaegar walked slowly, nodding his greetings at the assembled lords and ladies.

“I’m glad to welcome you to Harrenhal, Your Grace,” lord Whent said in a voice choked with emotion.

“Glad?” Aerys snorted. “Lead me to my chambers. These roads will be the end of me.”

“This is an honour for me, Your Grace,” it was clear that lord Whent was about to lose his senses. He signaled to his eldest son, and he left with the King, Prince Viserys, Ser Oswell, and several servants. “My prince,” Whent glanced at the heir, no longer expecting anything good.

“Lord Walter,” the Prince kindly nodded. “I thank you for your hospitality. I am happy to be your guest and I hope that our stay will not cause you too much trouble.”

“Thank you,” lord Whent smiled hesitantly, and Eddard thought that if, according to Jon Arryn, Rhaegar did not possess enough political instinct, then he certainly could not be denied manners, patience, and tact.

Members of the royal family disappeared into the castle, setting off to rest after the long journey. They were followed by guards, soldiers and servants. Ned glanced around once again, still hoping to see the girl with laughing eyes, but instead of dark eyes he met with his sister's gray ones.

“Ned!” She exclaimed. “Look, Bran! This is Ned! And Ben is with him!”

Not even the tiniest moment had passed before Lyanna hung herself on Eddard’s shoulders. Ned also hugged her tightly and kissed her on the cheek, and then she joyfully rushed to embrace Benjen. Brandon was more restrained: he patted Ned on the shoulder and ruffled the dark chestnut hair of his younger brother. Eddard thought that King’s Landing had made Brandon more composed; he no longer looked like a young man playing lord. He looked like a lord and seemed the true heir to his father.

“Lya, you have no idea,” Ben boasted, “I have just seen the Dragon Prince! And Arthur Dayne! Lya, do you know him? Can you ask him to show Dawn to me?”

“Yes,” Lyanna smiled slyly. “I am introduced to ser Arthur, but I don’t think that bothering such a noble knight with all sorts of nonsense is a good idea. What will I get for asking him to show you the sword?”

“Lya!” Benjen was indignant. “Don’t be so mean!”

Watching their skirmish, Eddard smiled softly. His sister was still an ebullient child, but at the same time she was growing more and more into a woman. The last time he saw her at Winterfell, she was still their little girl, a tender bud, about to bloom, but now the bud had burst, and a beautiful flower had presented itself to the world. Ned was sure that Robert would be even more persistent when speaking of a possible engagement. They had already discussed this several times, but Ned had not yet written to his lord father, waiting for something he never would have been able to name.

“Lady Lyanna!” Robert approached her. Speak of the Stranger and he will appear.

Having acknowledged him, Lyanna made a curtsy, and Ned noticed how tender colour had touched her cheeks under Baratheon's persistent gaze. He took her hand and brushed the back of her palm with his lips ever so lightly, without ceasing to look straight into Lyanna's eyes, which caused only more embarrassment and made her blush deeper.

“I’m very pleased to see you again,” Robert released her hand reluctantly only after Lyanna made a visible attempt to free it from his grip. Ned glanced at his older brother. Bran had also noticed all this and seemed to be pleased.

“Likewise, lord Baratheon,” his sister muttered, and turned to Benjen.

“Lya,” he continued, as if not noticing Robert at all, “you must tell me everything.”

“Fine, Ben,” she agreed, and judging by the way she pursed her lips, Robert's presence constrained her. “Only at first, I need to rest from the trip, wash and eat, and then we can go for a walk. I think the servants have already managed to unpack our things, and Lotha was to fill my bath first thing after we’ve arrived. Have you been accommodated inside the castle?” Lyanna asked, addressing Ned this time.

“Yes,” Eddard confirmed, “but we’ve spent both nights in the tent.”

“Then I will come to your tent as soon as I am ready,” she smiled and headed towards the black castle walls.

Brandon exchanged a pair of insignificant words with his brothers and followed his sister. Hoster Tully was very upset by this when he approached Ned to inquire about his older brother. Lord Hoster's expression was still benevolent, but lightning of anger had flashed across the blue sky of his eyes for a moment, because Brandon Stark had utterly forgotten to even mention his daughter. Eddard assured lord Hoster that his brother was too tired from the journey, and that Ned himself was determined to speak with Brandon on this matter.

Lyanna, arm in arm with her older brother, appeared at the Starks' tent when the sun, which had finally come out after the white morning clouds had been scattered away, had reached the zenith of its path along the sky. Benjen led Lyanna to watch the buffoons, who, in the hope of earning money, had come to Harrenhal from all the Seven Kingdoms and even from across the Narrow Sea. Brandon and Eddard went for a walk along the stalls. None of them was interested in goods for sale, but the market was a good place to talk.

“You should go and visit your bride, Bran,” Eddard spoke right after Lyanna and Benjen had left. “Her father is unhappy with you.”

“If you don’t stop your notations, Ned,” Brandon snorted, “then I will go to the tavern with Robert Baratheon and leave you to your boring self. I must admit that I will be sorry to do so, because I’ve missed you, brother. However, I do not intend to listen to your tedious tirades.”

“Fine,” Ned surrendered, “I was just trying to draw your attention to this.”

“I will visit lady Catelyn later, if this calms you down,” Brandon tried to solicit a truce. “What's new in the Vale?”

“Nothing to talk about,” Ned shrugged. “Robert wants to ask for Lyanna’s hand in marriage and urges me to write to father.”

“I’ve expected this to happen,” Brandon smiled, shaking his head, “you only need to remember how he gaped at her when he was visiting at Winterfell.”

“Yes,” Ned agreed. “I still can’t believe that our Lya, this restless boy in a dress, will soon become a bride no less.”

“Me too,” Brandon said. “However, you must admit that Robert Baratheon is a good match, Lyanna will not be in need for anything, and you will be related to your best friend. When do you intend to send a raven to father?”

“Soon,” Ned answered vaguely. “After the tourney, I think. I’m sure father will agree, especially now...” upon saying this, Eddard glanced carefully around the crowd, as if expecting to notice one of the King’s squealers. “However, you understand as well that a wedding cannot happen, as long as you and Lya remain in King’s Landing. Father is saddened ... by separation.”

“You're right,” Brandon said, having got his brother’s meaning. “But no one can tell you when we are back. We are locked in a cage, and I fear that its rods will soon turn to be of genuine iron indeed. Why do you think Lyanna was allowed to travel to Harrenhal? She is the Queen’s lady in waiting, and Her Grace has been left in the capital, and our sister should have stayed there with her. The King, however, has decided differently,” his brother spoke these words in a whisper, and then added loudly: “showing incredible generosity towards Lyanna, because she was really eager to attend the tourney.”

Surprised by Brandon's sudden suspiciousness, Ned followed his gaze, and was amazed to see the girl with laughing eyes, who, in addition to her companions from the night before, was attended by the kingsguard Arthur Dayne and a small dark-haired girl of four or five years old.

“Do you know who it is?” Eddard asked, trying not to betray his interest.

“No, but I can guess,” Brandon smiled looking cunningly at his brother. “As you have probably understood already, these are the Dornish, and since the Sword of Morning has honoured their company with his presence, one of the ladies is probably his sister, lady Ashara. I think she’s that little giggler in a dark purple dress. It outlines her figure quite admiringly, don't you think?”

“Shut up,” Ned said through gritted teeth. He was afraid that Ashara Dayne would cast a look in their direction and witness his brother making fun of him.

“No way,” Brandon was openly enjoying himself. “You’ve asked me a question yourself. Now would you please listen to the answer. The little girl, most likely, is Arianne Martell – the future bride of Prince Viserys Targaryen, the King should announce their engagement at the welcome feast. And all this means that a young man who looks so arrogant is her uncle Oberyn, and a skinny girl is her aunt Elia. They say she is sick, and her mother has even refused to find her a husband, because the maesters warned the Dornish princess that the girl would not survive childbirth. I must say, for someone out of health she seems tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

“How do you know so much?” Ned was surprised.

“You see, my dear brother,” Brandon grinned, “it is not for nothing that I’ve spent these few months in King’s Landing. So, which of the two Dornish ladies has captured our poor Ned’s heart?”

Eddard turned pale, he opened his mouth to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. Brandon smirked with satisfaction, and grabbing Ned by the elbow, strode briskly towards the Dornish, dragging his brother along with him. Ned would have preferred to turn back and dissolve into the crowd, but it was too late: the Dornish had already noticed them.

“Ser Arthur,” Brandon thundered joyfully, as if he and Dayne were good old friends, “I am very glad to see you!”

“Lord Stark,” Arthur Dayne bowed his head in surprise, but was too polite in order not to express his amazement out loud.

“Let me introduce you to my brother Eddard,” Brandon pushed Ned forward, and he felt his traitorous ears start to flare up again.

“It's an honour, ser Arthur,” Ned mumbled.

“The honour is all mine, lord Eddard.” Dayne nodded encouragingly and presented all his companions by name, thus confirming all of Brandon’s guesses. Ned and his brother bowed politely to the ladies and Prince Oberyn, expressing the joy of meeting them.

Having crossed lady Ashara’s gaze, Eddard barely restrained himself from casting his own down to the toes of his boots. Now, in the light of day, he was able to see that her eyes were of a delicate purple colour, and her skin, like that of the other Dornishwomen, was olive, Ned had never seen any of the such before. Lady Ashara smiled kindly at him, bowing in a curtsy, and Ned, with excitement, managed to squeeze out only a crooked smile, and a quiet "I’m very glad."

“How do you find the tourney so far, my princess, my lady?” Brandon asked, and Eddard was envious of the ease with which his brother addressed the ladies present.

“It has certainly impressed me with its grandeur,” Princess Elia said politely.

“However, I hope this tourney will be later remembered thanks to the future jousts,” lady Ashara added, “I would like to witness a decent and honest competition.”

“Who is your champion, if you pardon my curiosity?” Brandon continued the conversation, and Ned mentally reproached himself for the shyness that had overcome him and took him hostage. He was also able to ask such a simple, non-binding question, but he just stood there being sullenly silent, as if a mute statue.

“My brother,” both girls answered almost simultaneously. They glanced at each other, Princess Elia smiled tenderly, and lady Ashara burst into a resounding laugh.

“Are you going to enlist?” The princess asked, turning to Brandon.

“Of course, my princess,” he grinned, “and just like your dearest companions, I intend to win.”

“In that case, I wish you good luck,” Princess Elia said, looking the older Stark in the eye.

Brandon, it seemed, wanted to say something else, but he caught the disgruntled glance from Prince Oberyn and, apparently, preferred to leave the unspoken inside his head. The silence, that usually marked the end of a polite small talk, fell among them but after a moment it was suddenly broken by Ashara Dayne.

“And you, lord Eddard?” She asked. “Will you enter the lists?”

It took Ned some time to realize that all their faces were turned to him. His ears flared even more, and he was sure that lady Ashara had not missed this.

“I ...” he muttered. “No. Not this time.” Ned deeply regretted that he had decided not to take part. He even had the thought of finding a bladesmith and buying some new armor, and then of getting a good destrier, but he had quickly dismissed this idea as extremely stupid.

“It's a pity,” lady Ashara said, making Eddard feel tormented by guesses if she had said it out of politeness alone or if she was truly disappointed. For a moment, he imagined himself being the winner of the tourney, crowning Ashara Dane with the queen of love and beauty’s laurel, but he was forced to admit to himself that such good jousters as her brother Arthur, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen or the white cloak Barristan Selmy were too tough for him, and this realization made Ned feel bitter. Another vision popped up in his head, where Prince Oberyn Martell had unhorsed him in his very first joust and made fun of him together with lady Ashara no less.

“Well, my lords,” ser Arthur had broken the turbulent flow of Ned’s thoughts, “it was very nice to meet you, but we have to go. See you all at the feast!”

The Starks bowed to the Dornish and hurried back to their tent.

“Poor brother,” Brandon grinned. “You're born not too talkative a person, but lady Ashara seems to have made you swallow your tongue.”

“Shut up,” Ned snapped.

“And you look really fascinated by her,” the older brother continued to rant. “Well, I understand you, she’s pretty enough, but the Dornish princess seems lovelier to me after I had the chance to inspect her closer. If not for her pouty brother, I would get to know her better. I’m thinking of asking her to dance at the welcome feast, and I advise you to do the same with lady Ashara.”

“You won’t do it, Brandon,” Ned said indignantly. “You are betrothed to Catelyn Tully and you must dance with her. It’s stupid to dangle after Elia Martell; her brother will kill you if you offend her in the very slightest.”

“Ned, it seems, we’ve agreed that you won’t deliver any more of your marvelous notations,” Brandon scoffed. “I’ve already planned a dance with lady Catelyn, don’t worry. However, you did not say anything regarding lady Ashara.”

“How can I if I don’t know how to approach her even!” Ned burst out suddenly. “She is always surrounded by a whole crowd of her friends.”

“Hm,” Brandon grunted with self-satisfaction. “I think we can do something about it ...”

He did not have time to finish, for the brothers had finally reached their tent. Voices could be heard behind the thick white fabric, which meant that Lyanna and Benjen had come back already. Having gone inside, Ned found that it was not only their younger brother and sister waiting for them.

“Howland!” Brandon exclaimed in surprise behind Ned’s back.

The Starks’ bannerman and lord of the Greywater Watch Howland Reed was indeed there, sitting in the center of the tent on a wooden chair. Whether the chair was so high, or Howland was so small, but his feet swayed in the air, and Lyanna and Benjen were scurrying around him. His sister applied wet rags to Howland's face, and Ben waved his hands and shouted violently, depicting a seething activity. Having looked closely, Ned noticed that Reed's thick brown hair was tangled, his lip was broken, and all his clothes were draggled with mud.

“I'm glad to see you, my lords,” Howland said calmly, as if nothing unusual had happened. “I hope you will forgive me for my intrusion, but lady Lyanna invited me and I ...”

“Ah, leave it be, lord Reed,” Lyanna flung her hands up, “you can always count on help and hospitality in the Starks’ house.”

“Lyanna is right, Howland,” Brandon smiled, sitting down. “Judging by your appearance, you have gotten yourself into a jolly mess. Is somebody going to tell us what’s happened?”

“It was them,” Lyanna exclaimed. “We went to the buffoons and saw them...”

“A threesome of stupid squires,” Benjen picked up, “they kicked him.”

“Vile little creatures who do not know what honour is ... How could one attack someone who is weaker?”

“Shame on the knighthood! I hope the Old Gods will punish them.”

“Shut up!” Brandon threw his arms up. “I did not understand a single thing, speak more clearly.”

“I'll tell you all,” Howland spoke. “After you and I, Lord Brandon, saw each other for the last time, I, as I was planning, went to the Isle of Faces, which lies not so far from here, among the green waters of the Gods Eye Lake. I spent a few months there and now I’m on my way back. My boat moored ashore near Harrenhal, and I decided to take a look at the tent camp. Three young men who, by age, are most likely to be somebody’s squires, called after me and began to scoff at me, calling me short and shouting words so indecent that I would not dare to repeat them in the presence of lady Lyanna. I left their insults unanswered and tried to leave, but one of them knocked me down, and all three laughed at me. They would torture me to death if not for lady Lyanna and lord Benjen. Lady Lianna had recognized me at once...”

“Lya bristled up as your she-wolf,” Benjen interrupted Reed’s tale, as he was eager to tell the end of the story. “She screamed at them, threatening that she would tell everything to her older brother, and if they did not go away immediately, she would inform the king. She’s the queen’s lady in waiting, she’s known at court, and should she say a word, they all would be hanged on a nearby tree.”

“You’ve a little overestimated your influence over the royal family, Lya,” Brandon grinned.

“However, these three swallowed my lies and were gone,” Lyanna lifted her head. “I swear by the Old Gods, I was ready to cut their throats.”

“You did well, Lya,” Ned smiled. “Howland, you can count on any help you may require. If you want, we can lend you fine armor and a horse, you can avenge yourself. Do you know whose people they were?”

“I remember their coats of arms and I can recognize them,” Reed nodded. “I thank you for the offered help, lord Eddard, but I'm afraid I’m so useless a jouster that I can’t take revenge, only disgrace myself even more. I will pray to the Old Gods in the castle’s godswood, I hope they will hear me and come to my defense, because they have already aided me today by sending lady Lyanna to my rescue.”

“The gods will hear you,” Lyanna exclaimed warmly. “I’m sure of it! Otherwise, why one is in need of such gods that cannot deliver fair punishment to the villains?”

“As you say, Howland,” Ned shrugged, “but do know that we are always ready to help you. Will you attend the evening festivities?”

“Dearest lord Reed,” Lyanna cried, “of course you must go and have some fun!”

“As you say, lady Lyanna,” Howland smiled, “however you must promise the first dance to me.”

“That's a promise I can easily make! I must admit that I am afraid that nobody will ask me at all except you and my brothers,” Lyanna laughed.

“Why has it ever crossed your mind that we are going to ask you?” Brandon grinned.

“Just try not to,” Lyanna punched Brandon lightly on the shoulder with her small fist.

“Surely, we will all dance with you, Lya,” Ned supported her. “But I do not think that you would be in need of partners.”

“I’ve always known which one of you was my most beloved brother,” Lya flashed her eyes pointedly in the direction of Brandon and hugged Ned tightly.

Having taken Benjen and Howland, whom she intended to lead to the Harrenhal godswood, Lyanna retired to the castle to prepare for the welcome feast, which was to take place later in the evening. Brandon also left quite soon, and Ned, before following their example, went out for some air. Today's events swirled before his eyes: the arrival of the royal family, the laughing eyes of lady Ashara, his brave sister, who stood up for Reed. If the remaining days were equally full, Ned would probably feel dizzy.

Sighing, Eddard glanced around and took a long look at Harrenhal. Its walls, melted in dragonfire, blackened against the blood-red sunset.


	17. Lyanna III

Being about to leave, Lyanna cast the last glance in the dim mirror. Slightly nervous, she ran her hands along the dark blue satin of the dress, straightening the hem once again. Lyanna whirled around, looking all over her slim body. The flecks from the candles danced on the shiny fabric. The dress, having been made in King’s Landing already, fitted her like a glove, outlining the delicate figure of the young Stark girl. Having put it on, Lyanna was afraid to move and felt as if she had been tied with strongest ropes. Lyanna raised her hand up cautiously and touched her hair moistened with fragrant water and styled into a tricky hairdo, which caused Lotha some hours of hard work. The construction on her head was so unusual that Lyanna was able to think only of what would happen if the rebellious curl would decide to break free.

“What a beauty you are, my lady,” Daisy, who was standing behind Lyanna’s back, clapped her hands. “Other maidens are plain compared to you.”

“What a thing to say,” Lyanna shrugged, thinking surprisingly about Princess Cersei. “Come on, Daisy, we have to go.”

In the dimly lit corridor, the Stark brothers were already fidgeting from foot to foot, waiting for her in the company of Howland Reed and Robert Baratheon. Brandon and Ned were standing a little aside and talking in muffled voices, and Lyanna could not resist an innocent eavesdropping. She put a finger to her lips and turned to Daisy, ordering her not to make noise, and crept closer to her brothers. They were so passionate about their argument that they did not even spot her approaching.

“I'm doing this for you,” Brandon said with a grin. “I will distract her friend, and you will ask your sweetheart to dance. You were dreaming about it!”

“Don't call her that,” Ned chided at his older brother, blushing like a ripe tomato. “You... you cannot understand...”

“How can I?” Brandon spread his arms and sighed, Lyanna smelled the poorly concealed scent of sarcasm in his sigh. “So, we have agreed.”

Ned looked as embarrassed as ever, and at the same time he was seething with anger, but he only waved his hand, not wanting to argue anymore with his older brother.

Did Eddard really fancy a girl? Thinking about this, Lyanna smiled to herself: she was glad for her brother. Remaining always in the shadow of Brandon, Eddard did not greatly succeed in such matters. While he was only making up his mind to approach the girl who caught his interest, she was already dancing with another. Her brother’s shyness made Lyanna laugh, but unlike Brandon, she was not going to tease Ned. Having imagined herself in his shoes, Lyanna thought that she would certainly burn with shame.

Having decided that it was time to declare her presence, Lyanna cleared her throat quite loudly. Her brothers acknowledged her and smiled, starting to praise her beauty, they looked slightly surprised by her outfit, and even Brandon kept his usual jokes to himself. Lord Reed kissed her hand clumsily, he had changed into new, clean clothes, washed and combed his hair, but red bruises were still visible on his pale face. Robert Baratheon smirked and, bowing his head to Lyanna, pronounced:

“This dress suits you very well. It makes your eyes shine even brighter.” Lyanna was overwhelmed by the sour smell of wine, and she grimaced in displeasure. Lord Baratheon, however, did not notice this.

“Thank you,” Lyanna muttered. She lowered her gaze, the heavy stare of his deep blue eyes laid on her shoulders, and it seemed to Lyanna that it was heavier than a whole bundle of stones.

Having divided into small groups, the Starks and their friends headed to the Great Hall, where the welcome feast was waiting for them. Desiring to escape lord Robert's advances, Lyanna took Howland Reed by the arm. Baratheon, however, did not react to this at all, it seemed that he did not even consider the little crannogman to be a worthy rival. This attitude of his had angered Lyanna, she felt offended for lord Reed’s sake and decided to spend the evening by his side, inducing the Storm Lord to fume a little. Fortunately, she wished to ask a lot from lord Reed, and the hours spent in his presence promised to be pleasant. In addition to Howland Reed and her brothers, Lyanna preferred the company of only one person among all the assembled guests. Upon leaving King’s Landing, she had scolded herself violently for even thinking about him and ordered herself to get him out of her head. However, fulfilling this task was close to impossible for her, especially when every day she had stared at his silver hair and a black traveling cloak with a fire-red dragon.

The Great Hall of Harrenhal, which was proudly called the Hall of Hundred Hearths, although Lyanna, out of pure curiosity had counted only thirty, was brightly lit with countless candles and was already filled with guests. The tables, breaking under the weight of many delicious dishes, stretched along the columns, which was growing upward, and rushed into the depths of the huge hall, to the high seat, where the King and the princes were placed. Lyanna's gaze ran over them, freezing a little longer on Prince Rhaegar's handsome regal face, she wanted to catch his eye, but the Prince looked the other way.

Behind the backs of the Targaryens, the kingsguards, ser Lewyn and ser Jonothor, stood in their endless service, the other four knights were apparently allowed to enjoy the feast. On both sides of the royal family, members of the Small Council sat with sour tense faces, completely inappropriate to the festive mood. Only the Hand of the King Owen Merryweather chatted joyfully about something, but his slimy smile could no longer fool Lyanna. Having been at the court, she managed to make sure that the Hand was petty and cowardly person.

At the very entrance, they stumbled into Albyn Snow, who, judging by his disheveled look, had spent that day in the company of Robert Baratheon in one of the Harenton’s taverns. But soon they had to part with him and with Daisy. The Starks, belonging to one of the great houses of Westeros, had a place closer to the King, and a mere bastard and the daughter of a castellan sat with the simpler folk. Lyanna promised that she would pay them a visit and followed her brothers.

At the table, she was seated between Ned and lord Reed. Ned fidgeted in his chair all the time and smiled nervously, and Lyanna quickly abandoned her attempts to engage him into conversation. When he tried to answer her questions, instead of looking at her, he constantly searched for someone in the crowd. Smiling to herself, she left Eddard to his torment of love. Instead, she began to chat with lord Reed at ease, inquiring about the crannogman’s journey, but not daring to ask the question she wished to ask, as long as they were surrounded by so many people.

The first course had been served, the conversations went silent, replaced by diligent chewing. Only poor Ned finicked aimlessly at his food. When the lords and ladies had satisfied their hunger, Owen Merryweather rose from his seat and in a very verbose and ornate manner announced the opening of the tourney on behalf of the King, he expectedly wished the participants good luck and encouraged them to fight boldly and fairly. Lyanna was surprised that the King did not speak these words himself, and only restrainedly clapped when the Hand was done with his speech. Aerys' cold claps had immediately drowned in the roar of the crowd.

When the rapturous roar had subsided, Aerys finally stood up. He did not start speaking immediately, at first, he studied sharply the huge hall filled with people with his dark narrow eyes. From her place, Lyanna could not see the exact expression, but it seemed to her that the King's valyrian eyes squinted evilly.

“My lords,” Aerys proclaimed, when the silence had fallen over the Great Hall. “Today’s grand feast marks not only the opening of the tourney, but also aims to celebrate the betrothal of our beloved son, prince Viserys, to princess Arianne of the House Martell,” the cheers were heard again, but they were several times quieter than the ones moments ago that rejoiced at the start of the tournament. Aerys cast a strange look at his heir, and then continued: “The royal family is stronger than ever, and there will be many more years of peace and prosperity ahead of us!”

Silence fell, the last words of the King seemed so ridiculous that people were unable to understand immediately as to how they should react. The Hand turned out to be the quickest.

“Long live the king!” Merryweather shouted, urging the others to follow his example. Not many supported him at once, but soon the Great Hall was filled with the echoes repeating the words of the Hand. That noise did not sound like a welcoming roar, and that was also clear to Aerys himself. He sat down again and waved to the musicians.

Music began to play, and to everyone’s delight, Prince Viserys and his little betrothed went out to dance. The prince was smiling happily and nicely. Descending from the royal high seat, he waved to the crowd surrounding him, like a true king. The little princess Arianne had her lips pursed with displeasure, but this did not stop her from looking surprisingly cute. The children performed several not quite graceful elements, and the rest of the couples followed after them. Howland Reed held out his hand to Lyanna.

“I have to remind you of your promise, my lady,” he smiled.

“I will gladly fulfill it,” Lyanna stood up and followed Reed.

Lyanna was small in stature, and together with the short Howland Reed, they matched pretty good. In addition, lord Reed was quite a tolerable dancer, which she did not expect of him at all.

“Pray tell, where have you learned to dance?” She asked cheerfully, walking a circle around her partner.

“I am the son of the lord, my lady,” Reed shook his head. “Despite the North severe morals, we know our manners well enough. You should know this as well, should you not?”

“I must confess, I attributed all these southern manners that I was taught to the bad influence of septa Jenna and Lord Arryn,” Lyanna laughed.

“Perhaps,” the crannogman shrugged, “that is why you are dancing much more elegantly than me.”

“You flatter me,” Lyanna smiled, she still felt constrained by her dress, so her own movements seemed bulky to her, “but I still thank you for the compliment. I honestly admit that I was also prompted to accept your invitation to dance due to the great desire to ask you about what you have seen on the Isle of Faces. I'm afraid my brothers would not have supported such a conversation.”

“I'm sorry, my lady,” Reid seemed truly upset, “but it is not in my power to satisfy your curiosity. I promised that I would keep everything secret.”

“I will not conceal that you have really disappointed me, my lord,” Lyanna said, “and now I have no choice but to be tormented by intrigue. However, in your answer, you have accidentally revealed one thing. Since you’ve made a promise to someone, you’ve really met someone there.”

“Well, you caught me, I lived for a while with the inhabitants of the island indeed,” Reed confirmed, reaching for Lyanna’s hand during the next dance element.

“Did your dreams come to you there?”

“They did,” Reed sounded frustrated for some reason. “Every night.”

“What did you saw?” Lyanna asked, bewitched.

“Much,” said the crannogman quietly, “and I cannot unravel most of it. I saw blood on the grass, blood on the iron steps, blood on the stone floor and on the sand. I saw a child’s head smashed against a wall.”

“This is so scary, lord Reed,” Lyanna muttered, startled, “but maybe your visions are just symbols.”

“Perhaps,” Reed nodded.

“Have you seen me?” Lyanna's heart fluttered in her chest and she felt a familiar painful longing when asking this question.

“I have,” the lord of the Greywater Watch replied shortly.

“But you won’t tell me?” Lyanna almost whispered.

“No,” Reed shrugged, “I’ve already told you why. My visions should not gain power over your life. I'm sorry to upset you.”

Only now, Lyanna had noticed that the dance was over. Howland Reed bowed and led her back to her brothers, and she danced the next rounds with them. Lyanna tried to smile, but the words of the crannogman did not allow her mind to rest, and her heart felt heavy. Blood and death. Whose blood will be shed? Whose child will die so cruelly? Perhaps these were just images that meant something different? But what? Lyanna's head was spinning, and her chest was squeezed by bad forebodings, but she continued to pretend that she was having fun.

Having fulfilled their brotherly duty, Ned and Brandon both fled from her. Following them with her gaze, she saw Bran gallantly asking Elia Martell to dance, and Eddard bowing to Ashara Dayne, taking advantage of her friend being now gone. Watching the brothers, Lyanna did not notice the impressive wide form of Robert Baratheon growing in front of her like a mountain.

“I hope, you won’t refuse me?” He inquired, offering her his hand.

Lyanna’s first intention was to refuse: Baratheon stunk of wine even heavier, his nose was greasy from sweat, making his usually handsome face look unpleasant. Dancing with Brandon, Lyanna heard lord Robert arguing with Richard Lonmouth as to who would be able to drink more wine. Disputing that topic, Baratheon roared with laughter, and Lonmouth shouted in a squeaky voice that he would win the bet, and in the morning, he would easily win the competition of archers, because he was the best shooter in the realm. Then he was reminded that the Harrenhal tourney lacked archers’ competition, which made Lonmouth very upset.

Lyanna nodded to lord Robert, taking his hand. She did not want to disappoint Ned, surely, she could suffer through a single round. In addition, the upcoming dance supposed the switch of partners, which made the whole thing a little easier, unless, of course, Lyanna got some boring old man or some sponger like Merryweather.

“Your skills are prominent,” Baratheon praised her, as soon as they passed several dance elements.

“Thank you,” Lyanna nodded, thinking whether she should step on his foot, making him regret such hasty conclusions.

“I’ve often recalled the time when we’ve met at Winterfell,” Baratheon spoke again after a brief, but rather awkward silence.

“Truly?” She hardly remembered him, but it would be too rude to say it openly.

“Absolutely,” Baratheon chuckled, taking her question for encouragement.

“I'm afraid you're exaggerating,” Lyanna shook her head, barely holding back the mockery.

Baratheon was silent, he still did not have enough time to offer an objection: Lyanna made a turn, changing places with her neighbour, her hand left lord Robert's big sweaty palm and landed into the warm and callous hand of her temporary partner. Even before she could raise her eyes, she already knew that she would meet the indigo gaze, covered with a veil of sadness. His fingers squeezed her palm slightly and he smiled tiredly.

“My lady,” Prince Rhaegar whispered.

“Your Highness,” she replied. Lyanna felt cold sweat covering her small palms, as a pleasant shiver ran through her body. She experienced an incredible elation, for it was the first time she was really able to touch Rhaegar, even if they just held hands. But now, Lyanna had learned that his palms were rough from constant training with the sword, that he held her hand firmly, but at the same time very gently, as if afraid to cause her discomfort.

“Allow me to say that you are very beautiful tonight,” the prince said, and Lyanna felt almost dizzy.

“Thanks,” she muttered. “I am very... very pleased to hear this from you.”

The dance compelled her to return to Robert Baratheon, and when Prince Rhaegar had reluctantly released her hand, Lyanna felt an icy void opening around her and letting out a monster, which had suddenly pounced upon her. Baratheon's sticky palm grabbed hers again, and Lyanna felt a sudden urge to break free, rush to the Prince and beg him to get her out of here as soon as possible.

_Stop, silly girl_ , she told herself. _You can’t think about it. This cannot be desired, for it is impossible. Stop and save yourself, and him too._

Baratheon was saying something to her, but Lyanna was not listening, as she was struggling with her thoughts and her excitement. She forbade herself to look at the Prince, but, knowing that he was somewhere nearby, she still turned her head in his direction, watching him lead his all too beautiful wife in a dance. Once she had caught the eye of Rhaegar Targaryen she turned away in embarrassment. He was seeking her out too, not able to restrain himself! Or maybe she had just invented everything, and in reality, he did not feel the same at all, and his nice compliment was no more than ordinary politeness. Silly little Lyanna! Is there such a maester in the world that would know how to calm this thrill deep inside one’s soul, how to tame the racing heart and steady uneven breath, how to make flushed face look uninterested. Lyanna glanced at Prince Rhaegar again, but he no longer looked in her direction.

There was a break in dancing and the guests returned to the tables. Lyanna filled her goblet with wine and drank almost all of it.

“Caution, sister,” Brandon laughed. “It’s better to start drinking in small sips.”

“It's incredibly stuffy here,” Lyanna explained. “I'm choking.”

She truly was hot, but the air in the hall was not to blame for this. Involuntarily, she turned her gaze towards royal high seat. The Prince was explaining something to a lord with a bright red hair, the Princess was sitting next to him and was staring at a point in front of her, looking displeased. Her neighbour was the master of ships with a face both agitated and morose. The boy-servant had run up to him, whispered something in his ear and the master of ships, jumping from his seat, left at once. At this, Lyanna finished studying the royal table, for she saw how one of the lord Whent’s servants brought a harp to the Prince. Rhaegar nodded and took hold of the instrument, while the red-haired lord had melted into the crowd.

As soon as Rhaegar Targaryen touched the silver strings, Lyanna's heart began to dance, carried away by magical sounds. The Prince's high-pitched voice had flown across the Hall of Hundred Hearths, telling the sad tale of two lovers, making all the assembled guests live through the story with him, rejoice and cry with him. It was a fairy tale about a princess and a vile knight. The vile knight was angry with one king and had abducted his daughter in order to murder her, thus making his revenge on the king. However, the girl was so kind and so beautiful that the knight had fallen in love with her with all his heart, and the princess could understand that he was not so vile as he seemed, and his anger at her father was fair. So, they spent some time engrossed in their newfound love, until the king’s army came to rescue the princess. They killed the knight, and the girl was returned home. But the princess never smiled again, and no matter how the king tried to cheer her up, she only wept from day to day. One morning, as soon as the sun rose over the king’s castle, the princess died with the name of her beloved on her lips. Lyanna had never heard this song before and guessed that the Prince had composed it himself. She thought sadly about what should be happening in his heart, as even for the merry festivities he had chosen the ballad of grief.

Prince Rhaegar struck the chords of his harp for the last time and the entire Great Hall of Harrenhal exploded in ecstatic cheering. Only then did Lyanna suddenly realize that she was not hearing this voice for the first time. She remembered a walk around King’s Landing, a tavern and a little girl praising a mysterious singer named The Stranger Bard. Lyanna glanced at Brandon, but he did not seem to notice anything, and she chose not to enlighten him.

Her brothers were right, and she really did not sit through a single dance, swirling with a lot of young men, among whom were the kingsguards Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent, and the bastard Albyn Snow. However, Prince Rhaegar went no longer down for a dance, he remained seated in his place, occasionally talking to someone from his attendants. Princess Cersei danced with the young man, they were both alike like the two drops of water, apparently, he was her brother. As for Brandon and Ned they had asked their Dornish ladies again. Brandon also danced with his betrothed Catelyn Tully, she gazed at him with admiration, and he seemed bored. For some reason, Lyanna felt sorry for lady Catelyn, but her brother could not be changed.

At the end of the feast, Lyanna, claiming fatigue, returned to her room. Lotha prepared hot bath for her and helped her into a silk nightgown, which pleasantly chilled her skin. Lyanna climbed under the covers, but she did not sleep, for the girl was still thrilled by the events of the past day. Howland Reed's words haunted her, and on her right hand she still felt the gentle touch of Prince Rhaegar. As soon as she closed her eyes, she saw blood spilled on the grass, on the iron steps, on the stone, on the sand, she saw a sad indigo look that drew her closer and closer.

Having tossed and turned enough, Lyanna got up with a sigh. She put on one of her simple woolen dresses, pulled on her shoes and tiptoed out of the bedchamber on her way to the godswood, where she hoped to find at least a little comfort. After a grand feast, everyone was sleeping soundly, including the castle guards, so Lyanna slipped outside easily through a small gate. The night air was moist and fresh, and she inhaled it with pleasure. A smile began to play on Lyanna's lips. Pulling the hem of the dress up a little to protect it from dirt, she rushed towards the godswood.

“Lady Lyanna?”

Scared, Lyanna lost her balance and almost fell, but skilled hands had caught her.

“I think I’ve managed to frighten you again,” Prince Rhaegar shook his head in concern. “This is already becoming my bad habit. Forgive me.”

Lyanna did not reply, she looked at the Prince with a mixture of surprise and fear. The Prince also did not take his eyes off her, and his hands continued to hold her by the shoulders, although she was not falling anywhere.

“Don't apologize,” she finally mumbled. “I just ... did not expect to meet anyone.”

“Me too,” Prince Rhaegar smiled, releasing her from his grip at last. Lyanna felt unexpectedly cold, and she cringed at his deep stare. “What are you doing outside at such a late hour?”

“I went to the godswood,” Lyanna explained. “I could not sleep, and I decided to search for some peace with the Old Gods. And what are you doing here, Your Highness?”

By asking this question, Lyanna felt alarmed that he would be offended. The Crown Prince does not have to report to her on where and why he goes, but Rhaegar Targaryen did not even frown.

“I wanted to take a walk,” he answered simply. “At night the grounds are empty and quiet, and no one bothers me, so I can enjoy nature. It gives me strength, and here, it seems to me, nature is especially magical: tall dense forests, where trees are even more magnificent and ancient than Harrenhal itself, the Gods Eye with its riddles and secrets and, of course, the Isle of Faces, I’ve read so much about it. All this I can truly see and hear only when I’m alone without hordes of people scurrying around me.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Lyanna murmured. “It seems that my bad habit is distracting you.”

“You are not distracting me,” Prince Rhaegar tilted his head, examining her face. “Not you. It seems to me that you are able to share this beauty with me. Do you like it here?”

“Yes,” under his solemn gaze, Lyanna felt herself blushing deeply, “I went to the shores of Gods Eye, while we were still on our way to King's Landing from Winterfell. This place seemed dangerous to me, but at the same time bewitching. I only regret that I visited the riverlands in winter, when all fields and forests stay bare. I would like to see trees dressed up in foliage and carpets of grass covered with flowers.”

“Do you like flowers?” Prince Rhaegar asked.

“Yes, I do love them very much,” Lyanna exclaimed.

“And what are your favorites?” The Prince inquired, as if he was going to present her a bouquet.

“You won’t find them here,” Lyanna said mysteriously. “These are blue winter roses.”

“I read about them,” Prince Rhaegar rejoiced, “but I have never seen them. They only grow in Winterfell, is that right?”

“Yes,” Lyanna nodded. “My father has a whole greenhouse. Selling flowers complements very well to lord Stark's income.”

“How did it happen that we talked about flowers and ended up counting coin?” Prince Rhaegar laughed. “Did you enjoy the feast?”

“Yes,” Lyanna answered, recalling how her hand lay in his palm. “And you?”

“It was better than I expected,” the Prince replied vaguely. “When you live at court from the very birth, you are no longer able to find pleasure in such amusements.”

“I’m in possession of one of your secrets,” Lyanna smiled slyly.

“Which one?” Prince Rhaegar grinned, but Lyanna noticed that he was nervous.

“You are deceiving your honourable subjects, hiding under the guise of the Stranger bard,” she blurted out.

“How did you...?” The Prince looked truly surprised. “Have you heard me singing in that tavern?”

“Yes, I have come upon it once with my brother and the captain of our house guard,” Lyanna explained. “You’ve made me cry.”

“I'm sorry,” Prince Rhaegar sighed.

“Don't be,” she laughed softly. “I tried to tell you that I really liked your songs and your voice and...” Lyanna did not finish the sentence and looked down in embarrassment.

“Thank you,” the Prince muttered chokingly. “And your brother, did he ...?”

“He didn't understand anything,” Lyanna reassured him. “And Albyn too.”

“Good,” the Prince breathed out a sigh. “I do not want this to ever reach my father. Only ser Arthur knows my secret, and now you as well... I'm afraid I will have to kill you,” he added in an icy tone.

Lyanna was dumbfounded at his words, and Rhaegar Targaryen laughed merrily. Lyanna never saw him so succumbed by laughter and a small smile crept to her lips.

“I was joking,” the Prince said coughing from laughter. “I am always so somber that no one expects a joke from me.”

“I will not betray your secret to anyone, Your Highness,” Lyanna assured him warmly. “You can rely on my loyalty.”

“I trust you,” Prince Rhaegar smiled. “Let me escort you to the godswood, my lady, as for myself, I am going to bed. If you want, I can wait for you and return you to the castle safe and sound.”

“No, Your Highness,” Lyanna shook her head, “I will return to the castle alone. I believe, we shouldn’t be seen in each other’s company.”

“You're right,” the Prince agreed, sighing sadly.

He, as promised, escorted her to the godswood and there they said goodbye. Lyanna rushed to the weirwood with a heavy heart and prayed for a long time that the Gods would bestow peace of mind upon her, and joy upon her family and loved ones. On her way back, Lyanna, to her surprise, came face to face with Benjen. He looked sleepy, disheveled and displeased, followed by two Stark guards.

“Ben?” The girl was surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to get you,” Benjen said. “I was sleeping peacefully, when a servant woke me up and said that another servant had told him, and some guard had told that other servant... To keep it short, he said that you were alone in the godswood and you should be escorted back to your chambers.”

_Prince Rhaegar_ , Lyanna guessed with the smile.

“You look too pleased, sister,” Benjen grumbled, “and I, by the way, am cold. Let’s go inside, who knows, maybe the threesome who’s attacked lord Reed are wandering somewhere around.”

“About lord Reed,” Lyanna began, looking fearfully around her, “I had an idea. If only we knew these three...”

“I know who they are,” Benjen interrupted. “Howland recognized them at the feast and showed them to me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Lyanna was indignant.

“And why should I have told you,” her younger brother retorted. “What is your idea by the way?”

“I won't tell you,” Lyanna snorted.

“Please, Lya,” Benjen whimpered, “stop balking.”

“Fine,” Lyanna had mercy, “just promise that you will help me.”

“Good,” Ben agreed.

“And don't call me mad.”


	18. Jaime I

The morning at Harrenhal was surprisingly clear, and although the coolness of the night still made him shiver slightly and let loose the restless goosebumps, the promise of a warm day filled the air. Heavy gray clouds crawled away to the far corners of the wide sky, leaving the sun unimpeded to travel through the pale blue vastness. Perhaps such a long-awaited spring had truly returned to the Seven Kingdoms and promised to cast away the rains and dank cold. The orb of the day, golden, like a lion on the banners of the House Lannister, rose majestically above the horizon, like a good king, and Jaime imagined how his armour would shine in the bright gentle rays, blinding the audience in the stands.

Young Lannister cast a glance at the pristine sand of the jousting firld awaiting the start of the first jousts. Yesterday, Lord Whent's servants had been working hard since the early morning in order to lay it evenly, and it was yet untouched by the hooves of massive war horses and the knights in heavy armour were yet to leave the deep dents in it falling from their galloping destriers. Jaime smiled, thinking about how he would ride into the field to the deafening roar of the crowd on his proud palomino stallion. No one except Jaime himself, his sister, and several others involved had so far known that his armor would sparkle not with the crimson-gold colours of the Lannisters’, but with the white of the Kingsguard.

On his way to Harrenhal, Jaime could not even dream of such a thing. He had left Casterly Rock excited and confused: at heart, Jaime longed to see his sister soon, but he still felt deeply offended by her. Over the past months, Jaime had started a letter to her several times, but always changed his mind, cherishing his wounded youthful pride. Since Cersei preferred the sullen prince, at the time when Jaime himself was ready to leave everything he owned behind for her sake, then he wanted to find a replacement for his sister, tired of the role of her eternal lap dog. However, no matter how much time Jaime spent with the young daughters of his father's bannermen, his heart, as if defying its master, remained unchanged. He suffered, he was angry and cursed everything in the world, but could not help himself.

And now he will inevitably see her again. All the way to Harrenhal, Jaime was thinking about how to treat his sister, how to hide his stupid fervour away and let himself study her with the distant look of cold and boredom that Cersei always portrayed so well. His father, who accompanied his heir to Harrenhal, was angry and gloomy and hardly spoke to his son. The meeting with his daughter, it would seem, was also not making him feel happy, although nothing else was to be expected from Lord Tywin. Once, Jaime had overheard his father speaking angrily to himself: “Silly, useless girl!”, but did not dare to ask any questions. Lord Tywin would never have bothered to explain anyway, only scold his son for sticking his nose in his father’s affairs. Leaving mile after mile behind him on the river road running through the valleys and hills, Jaime regretted that Tyrion was expectedly left at home. The younger brother amused him at least, but Tyrion was not with them, and only companions at Jaime's disposal were his gloomy father and a silly squire, the sky with gray clouds hanging low above the earth, and his own bleak thoughts.

They had arrived at Harrenhal early, like many other noble lords who sought to find a better spot for their tent and get to know all the latest rumors sooner. None of this interested the young Lannister, so all the time until the arrival of the royal family, he was bored, waiting eagerly for the start of festivities and fights. He filled his time chatting with some of his acquaintances, seeing the barnstormers’ performances and having a drink in a tavern, but all this did not interest Jaime far too much. He felt as if he had swallowed a huge, heavy boulder, and no amusement gave him relief.

When the entrance of the royal family was announced, the boulder seemed to gain a few more pounds. In addition, Jaime was sent to meet the royal procession alone: lord Tywin, who had harboured resentment for Aerys’ from the very time of his resignation, did not appear, preferring to stay in his rooms. Having barely seen Cersei from afar, Jaime understood from her pursed lips that his sister was thoroughly dissatisfied with something. She had walked far enough from him, arm in arm with her royal husband, she wore a bright scarlet dress, with which she, apparently, tried to honour both Targaryen and Lannister Houses. Jaime was afraid that his sister had changed a lot during the time that they had been apart. Something hard and even cruel appeared in her expression, but still it seemed to him that she was all the same Cersei, who had left Casterly Rock many months ago to become the princess of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Ser Jaime?”

Young Lannister turned around and was astonished that he was hailed by none other than ser Arthur Dayne – the same man who knighted Jaime for his courage he had shown while hunting the Kingswood Brotherhood.

“Ser Arthur,” Jaime bowed low, still being in awe of the famous knight.

“I'm glad to see you here,” Dayne smiled. “Are you going to enter the lists?”

“Yes,” Jaime muttered, and all his dreams of a glorious victory suddenly vanished like a thin morning fog.

“In that case, I wish you good luck,” the Sword of the Morning said, patting Lannister on the shoulder, “you are a worthy opponent.”

“Good luck to you as well, ser Arthur,” Jaime answered. “You flatter me, I fear, but you are certainly second to none.”

Dayne shook his head, winked at Jaime as if he knew something Lannister did not, and left, leaving the latter alone. Jaime loitered a little more in the yard, wondering if he should go to his sister now or if he should wait. He wondered if he would be allowed to speak to her freely as her sibling, or would he have to request a special audience with the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms? This thought had amused and wounded Jaime at the same time, and not having settled upon anything, he went to the chambers that were assigned to him by lord Whent.

To his great surprise, Cersei arrived to his chambers herself sometime later. Having barely heard his not entirely pleased, "Come in!" at her insistent knock, she opened the door and invaded a small dull-furnished bedchamber at once. Jaime was angry with her presumptuousness, and he lurked like a lion, ready to jump at its prey.

“I was with father,” Cersei said, sitting down on a small wooden armchair with the crafty carved back.

She started spoking to her brother, not even saying hello, and behaved as if there had been no months of resentment and separation between them, as if they had said their farewells only yesterday before retiring to bed. Her voice, however, was trembling, and her eyes reddened, apparently, from tears. When Jaime noticed this, his heart softened, and from a hunting lion he turned rapidly into a faithful guard dog again.

“Did you have a fight?” He asked anxiously, understanding very clearly what Lord Tywin's anger looked like.

“No,” Cersei snorted, patting her eyes with a handkerchief, “I did not have a fight with him, it was him who chose to have a fight with me.”

“What’s happened?” Overwhelmed by the desire to console her, Jaime went up to Cersei and, lowering himself to the floor next to her chair, reached out and took her hand, so tender and velvety. For all the time of their separation, he did not forget what his sister’s skin felt like: soft, like the one of a newborn baby.

“Ah, it's nothing,” Cersei waved her hand. “It’s a long story and I’m not eager to tell it.”

There were no secrets between them before, Jaime remembered with sadness. As children, they shared everything with each other, albeit it was childishly stupid, but then they seemed to the twins the secrets of great relevance. He raised his head and stared at his sister, offended, he was struck by her favorite scent of rose water, so familiar that it had become cloy. The smell that once filled all the chambers in Casterly Rock, visited by his sister, reminded Jaime once again that it was the same Cersei in front of him.

“I’ve missed you so much, dear brother,” she cooed, resting her hand on Jaime’s golden curls. “I’m all alone in King’s Landing, I have absolutely no one to share my sorrows with.”

“What about your prince?” Jaime asked, being thrilled by her caress.

“The prince ...” Cersei sighed sadly. “The prince seems not to care for me.”

“He’s taken a mistress?” Jaime was surprised. His sister’s words did not fit in to the image of the sad and noble knight, which was worn by Prince Rhaegar like a costume of a buffoon.

“I don't know,” Cersei shook her head. “In any case, I could not accuse him of this, he had never been seen in the company of other women, and he does not pay attention to any of the ladies at court. Sometimes it seems to me that women do not interest him at all, for he lives in his own world, which does not have a place for me.”

“I'm sorry,” Jaime sighed, although his heart thumped loudly in his chest, as in truth he was glad that his sister’s relationship with the Prince had taken such a turn. The Targaryen family bliss would have made him bleed with jealousy.

“You shouldn’t be,” Cersei smiled too softly, and in that smile, Jaime sensed a note of hypocrisy. “I have a beautiful daughter, and I love her very much. I would like you to meet her. I’ve thought of you often, Jaime,” she said impulsively, “I wanted you to be with me, to remain my champion, my knight. Having received my father’s letter, I was so happy that I would see you again. You can’t imagine how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

_Not longer than I,_ Jaime wanted to shout, but said nothing.

Cersei's tone flattered and surprised the young Lannister at the same time. Jaime preferred to believe that his sister understood that he loved her more than anyone else can even imagine, but common sense suggested that Cersei was in need of something from him, as he had known her for all his life. His sister never demonstrated her affection for no reason, if she was ready to share something with him, she always wanted to get something in return.

“Father will never let me go to King's Landing,” Jaime shook his head.

“He will let you if the King orders him,” Cersei smiled slyly, forgetting, it seemed, about her tears. “You know that after ser Harlan Grandison’s passing, one place in the Kingsguard became vacant and remains so until now. I’ve convinced my husband that you should take this place. How do you like it?”

“Kingsguard?” Jaime was amazed. He could not have imagined that at such a young age he would be honoured to serve side by side with such glorious knights as the Sword of the Morning and the White Bull. He would learn from them; he would become their equal or even outdo them with time. In addition, he would be able to stay close to Cersei, and no one would ever dare to forbid him from doing this. Jaime was already dreaming about the great feats he would accomplish for the glory of the white brotherhood, he was dreaming of serene, happy days spent next to his sister, but he also remembered that he would have to give up a lot. “But I don't know,” Jaime hesitated. “What will father say? I would have to swear an oath...”

“Isn't it all worth us being together?” Cersei interrupted him. “You’ve never needed the Rock, brother. You’ve always wanted to become a knight, and now you can join the best, you can become famous, and most importantly, you will protect me. As for the other vows,” his sister lowered her voice to a languid whisper, emphasizing the word “others”, “I don’t think that someone truly keeps them. I am sure that all venerable sers have mistresses.”

Jaime was silent, his head down. Somewhere at the very edge of his consciousness, a thought knocked on his mind, like a bird’s beak on a window glass, that now he was to make a decision that would determine his future fate, but he drove the bird away, not wanting to hear its warning knock. He did not dream of anything so much as the glory of a knight and the possibility of being near Cersei.

“I will be glad,” he said finally.

Cersei smiled approvingly. Her expression reminded him of the way the old maester looked at him when Jaime answered his lessons correctly. He felt a stich in his chest, but Jaime couldn’t do anything with himself or with his answer.

“I knew that you would choose rightly,” his sister said quietly and printed an innocent kiss on his forehead indecently.

Wooden stands built around the field were filled with spectators. Noble families were housed in boxes specially designated for them, common folk crowded in anticipation around the fence, stretching their necks to get a look at the richly dressed noblemen. Peasants, merchants, and hedge knights pushed around, trying to take a better place. Some of the men had children sitting on their shoulders, waving their hands and yelling happily. The people buzzed like a huge swarm of bees, but from the boxes of the rich came a quiet measured chirping. The lords and ladies spoke to each other in a barely audible whisper, casting cautious eyes toward the still empty royal box.

Jaime stood in the distance, in the shadow, where no one had yet noticed him. He told his father that he had gone to say hello to some acquaintances, and lord Tywin remained unaware of what was to happen just before the start of the jousting. In the morning at breakfast, Jaime tried to start a conversation on this subject, but was so frightened that he only mumbled something incoherent and angered Lord Tywin even more.

_What a knight I am_ , Jaime thought, _fearing my own father more than death_.

At first, Jaime had reproached himself and was angry with his foul cowardice, but then he decided that it would probably be better, because his father would definitely try to stop him, and when the oaths were made, even lord Tywin would not be able to do anything, and Jaime would finally be free.

“It's time, ser Jaime,” Arthur Dayne’s voice came from behind, hollow and sad.

Jaime nodded and followed the Sword of the Morning silently, Dayne had led him under a canopy, built under the stands so that the knights could rest between rounds, without necessarily walking back to their tents, which could be far enough from the field. Lannister's squire – a boy named Erwyn Brax – helped him into his knew snow-white armour. Jaime's heart throbbed, beating loudly against his chest, he felt cold sweat on his forehead and his hands were trembling, not allowing him to deal with the leather straps that fastened the armour together.

When Jaime was just finishing his mailing, the heralds’ trumpets were heard over the jousting field, announcing the arrival of the King. The crowd rousted, but these sounds seemed somehow muffled to Lannister, as if water had been poured into his ears. He looked questioningly at Dayne.

“Don't worry, my friend,” ser Arthur smiled encouragingly. “I don’t know what’s compelled you to make such a choice, but now there is no turning back. Go and enjoy this moment. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Jaime said. The tips of his fingers went cold, despite that he was unbearably hot in the heavy steel armour. Jaime got up, grabbed a helmet under his arm and announced in a voice breaking off from excitement: “I'm ready”.

In fact, he was not ready, and it would be impossible to remain truly calm in his state. After a pleasant half-shadow of the canopy, the sun hit Jaime sharply in the eyes, and bright flashing flies scattered before his sight, so that in the first few moments he saw almost nothing. Having blinked several times, Jaime noticed the majestic ser Gerold Hightower, donned in exactly the same armour as Jaime and the same white cloak. The second cloak, intended for Lannister, White Bull held in his hands.

“Let me wish you good luck once again,” ser Arthur said quietly.

“Thank you,” Jaime froze for a moment and looked at Dayne's face. “Ser Arthur,” Lannister's voice faltered, “do you regret having knighted me?”

“No,” Dayne shook his head, “by no means.”

Ser Arthur waved his hand, indicating that they should no longer be delayed, and stepped aside, hiding in the shadow cast by the huge stands. On his feet almost giving way under him, Jaime walked up to ser Gerold and faced him. The red and black banners of the House Targaryen fluttered behind Hightower in a light spring wind, and it seemed to Jaime that the three-headed dragon was about to leave the silk fabric and rush up into the sky. Aerys' face seemed impenetrable, his advisers nodded approvingly, Prince Viserys clapped his hands enthusiastically, and Cersei smiled, looking, it seemed, directly into her brother's eyes.

However, when Jaime had turned his head a little to the side, he met his father's red face, burning with anger, it reminded Jaime of the color of the Lannister banners. Lord Tywin’s green eyes resembled the wildfire, and Jaime realized that nothing good was waiting for him. Perhaps today he would lose his father forever, but he will gain something more.

“On your knees!” Ser Gerold solemnly said, and Jaime obeyed a little hesitantly. “Are you, Jaime of the House Lannister, ready to take the vows of the Kingsguard here and now before the gods, the king and the people?”

“I’m ready,” Jaime had to answer loudly, so that everyone could hear, and he was afraid that his voice would tremble.

“Do you swear to serve faithfully as a shield for your King, defend him and his family valiantly, obey all his orders without hesitation, and die for him if so is the will of the gods?” The words left ser Gerold’s lips and flew up in the air, spinning and entangling Jaime, he barely heard what the Lord Commander said, but knew well enough that now only one true answer was possible for him.

“I swear.”

“Do you swear that you will abandon all the heritage of your ancestors forever, will not inherit from your brother, your father or other family, and your only property will be what is necessary to fulfill your duty?”

The fetters of words tightened and squeezed Jaime's chest, but he continued to answer as ser Gerold and King Aerys had expected from him, as his sister had expected from him.

“I swear.”

“Do you swear that you will never take neither a wife nor a paramour and will never father a child?”

His throat was constricted, leaving Jaime almost without air. He took a deep breath twice, coughed awkwardly and said:

“I swear.”

“Rise, ser Jaime of the House Lannister, knight of the Kingsguard, my brother in arms!”

Jaime stood up, barely holding back from staggering, and ser Gerold threw a white cloak over his shoulders. The crowd roared, greeting the new member of the white brotherhood, and Jaime thought that if this roar had real force, he would be knocked down. Joyful, he straightened up and for the first time in his life allowed himself to enjoy the moment of his own triumph, basking in the cheers of the crowd. Among the smiling faces, only the one of lord Tywin remained a twisted grimace of barely contained anger.

All that happened later, Jaime could hardly remember afterwards. Together with the rest of his new brothers in arms, he was assigned to Aerys. All the kingsguards gathered in a royal box, with the only exception of Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent. Ser Arthur withdrew to attend to Prince Rhaegar, who was supposed to enter the lists today, and ser Oswell left to defend the honour of his niece, the Queen of Love and Beauty of the tournament, whose title he had to protect with four of her brothers.

After the sonorous trumpets of the herald the jousting began. The four young Whents were quickly unhorsed, ser Oswell remained in his saddle a little longer, but he had also finished the first tournament day thrown in the sand, and soon returned to the royal box. Jaime’s eyes watched the jousts, but didn’t really see them, and if he had been asked to list all the winners of the first day, he wouldn’t be able to, he was so busy with his own thoughts. After the defeat of the Whents, Jaime remembered only Prince Rhaegar’s victory over Yohn Royce. Cersei had greeted him specially, rejoicing loudly and shouting her husband’s name. Jaime felt like he was painfully stabbed, and he thought that when his time came, he would certainly challenge the Dragon Prince to a joust. Rhaegar Targaryen is good, but Jaime Lannister is no worse, and they would see who is stronger.

Jaime could hardly speak with his sister, except for a few on-duty phrases. Cersei did not look at him at all, as well as the King, his close attendants and knights. Jaime felt needless, and as if to confirm this, they all preferred not to notice him. All around, they were talking quietly about something only they knew, but no one addressed Jaime, and soon he completely stopped listening to other people's conversations. Looking deep inside his mind, he either replayed the upcoming confrontation with his father which awaited him or turned to more pleasant thoughts and imagined himself unhorsing Prince Rhaegar and becoming the winner of the tourney. He would surely present the queen of love and beauty’s laurel to his sister, and only the two of them would know that this gesture meant more than simple observance of etiquette.

The jousting ended with the sunset, and ser Gerold informed Jaime that he was free until the next morning. Aerys brought the entire Kingsguard with him to Harrenhal, and now there were too many white knights. Before leaving for the capital, Jaime was allowed to spend his nights in his room in the Lannister's chambers, and in King’s Landing he would have a closet in the White Sword Tower. His sister was unwilling to talk to him, and Jaime trudged to his chambers.

_Rhaegar Targaryen will be jousting only in a day_ , Lannister mused along the way. _Then I will enter the lists too._

He so vividly imagined his sister's face when he would unhorse her royal husband, that he did not notice a figure of lord Tywin appearing before him like a ghost. Jaime froze and even his heart seemed to stop with him, and his breathing suddenly faded. Father gestured for him to follow, and Jaime, not daring to object, obeyed.

“What does all of this mean?” Lord Tywin asked tiredly, sinking into a dark heavy chair.

“I don’t understand, father ...” Jaime began.

“Stop it,” Lord Tywin interrupted. “Don't make a fool of yourself, you understand perfectly. Whose idea was this, yours or your stupid sister’s?”

“Mine,” Jaime said firmly. He remembered that Cersei had already gotten enough from Lord Tywin and did not wish father's anger to fall on her again.

“You're lying,” lord Tywin said. “It would have never occurred to you alone, and you could not have done it without her help, am I right?”

Jaime was silent, for he had nothing to object. He wanted to end this conversation as quickly as possible and leave. He would have to endure his father for several more days, and then their paths would run into different directions, and Jaime would finally be able to breathe freely.

“Your silence,” lord Tywin said, “means that I'm right. Your sister is probably pleased with herself now. How clever she was to arrange a place among the best knights of the Seven Kingdoms for you, a snotty-nosed youth! But you have to see that she has nothing to do with it. If Aerys had not wished to humiliate me and my family, he would never have agreed to this. The king is infinitely happy that the dwarf will now inherit my name and lands, and my eldest son will become his hostage. Well, what do you say to that?”

“I ...” Jaime opened and shut his mouth like a fish taken out of the water. When he pictured himself a glorified white knight, the arguments his father was speaking of now did not even enter his mind. Jaime felt like a perfect fool, and he was ashamed.

“Didn’t think,” his father continued for him. “For some reason, I’m the only member of this family, who worries about the future of House Lannister. I arranged the most desirable marriage in all Westeros for Cersei, and she comes to a step away from destroying everything. I worked hard for a long time, restoring the greatness of our house, and you should have supported me in this, but by your mercy, your freak-brother becomes the heir to the Rock!”

“You can give the Rock to uncle Kevan or any of your other brothers,” Jaime snorted. “If Tyrion is so disgusting to you, there are enough Lannisters around, the world is full of opportunities, which don’t involve me.”

“It's not about who will inherit the Rock,” lord Tywin said dryly. “The point is your complete reluctance to see beyond the tip of your own nose and ignore your silly fleeting desires. I was smarter at your age. The time will come, and you will regret what you have done, but nothing can be changed. Get away to your chamber, Jaime, I don't want to see you anymore.”

_As if I want to see you_ , Jaime thought, and left without looking back at his farther.

The next day he got up while it was still dark, in order not to intersect with his father, and walked around the castle grounds for a long time, until he finally took his place in the royal box. Now, Prince Rhaegar sat next to Cersei, he was resting from the previous day’s jousting, and Jaime could not help but watch him.

At first, Viserys bombarded the older Prince with questions, and Rhaegar answered them with enthusiasm, but then the King called his youngest son to him, and after that, Prince Rhaegar spoke little, and almost did not look at his wife. He only inquired a couple of times if she was hot and if she needed water, not turning to her at all anymore. Sometimes, as if searching for someone, his gaze traveled to neighboring boxes, where sat the Starks, the Tullys and the Martells with the Daynes, after that the Prince resumed watching the jousts and stared at the jousting field with the unseeing sight, similar to the one Jaime wore yesterday. However, to everyone's surprise, something happened, which made even Prince Rhaegar somewhat revived. The heralds played their trumpets, and the master of the tournament announced the mystery knight. Whispers were heard all around, the audience jumped from their seats, looking towards the end of the field, from which this mystery knight was supposed to appear.

The sight of the knight left Jaime disappointed: he was kind of small and ugly and wore a mismatched armour that looked ridiculous on him. On his shield the mysterious young man had painted a weirwood with a smiling face, which seemed quite unusual to Jaime. The knight's horse was nothing of the expensive destriers: it was a dapple-grey stallion, and if he were a human being, Jaime would call the look on his muzzle confused. Jaime feared that the stallion might be frightened and dishonour his brave rider.

“What gollywog of the knight is that?” Cersei laughed while the mystery knight rode past the shields with the other knight’s sigils, looking for an opponent.

“Poor thing,” the Prince shook his head anxiously, “he will have a hard time, but his courage deserves respect.”

Prince Viserys, delighted that something amusing was finally happening, clapped his hands.

Jaime agreed with Prince Rhaegar inwardly but preferred to remain silent. He was not in the position now to express his opinion, which was not asked of him.

“The Knight of the Laughing Tree challenges lord Haigh!” The master of the tournament proclaimed.

“It will be very funny if the boy wins,” ser Oswell laughed. “Haigh had to be humbled! A very disagreeable person, he spilled wine at my camisole at the feast.”

Jaime smiled and ventured a glance at the King. Aerys did not listen to the chatter of the kingsguard, but sat, leaning forward, his back unnaturally straight. His arms, with unusually long nails, clutched the armrests of the chair upholstered in red velvet, and his angry black eyes were fixed on the field, where the Knight of the Laughing Tree and lord Haigh were preparing for a joust. After the first round, both remained on horseback, and Jaime had to take his words about the dapple-gray stallion back: the horse turned out to be, although a little slow, but still nimble and reliable. The following two rounds did not reveal a champion among the two, but then the mystery knight, to everyone's surprise, unhorsed lord Haigh and knocked him down to the sand. The master of the tournament announced the winner loudly and started the talk about the custody of lord Haigh’s horse and armour, which mystery knight had won, but the knight with a smiling weirwood for the sigil raised his hand, showing that he wanted to speak. The master shrugged in bewilderment, but fell silent.

“I want no ransom,” the mystery knight’s voice was clear, almost girly, apparently, he was still very young, “I do not need it, I only demand that lord Haigh teach his squire honour!”

“Do you agree, lord Haigh, to fulfill the demand of the Knight of the Laughing Tree?” The master inquired.

“I agree, ser,” lord Haigh bowed and left the jousting field, escaping with only the shamed dignity.

After that, the Knight of the Laughing Tree challenged the lords of Blount and Frey, and won them both, however, not without considerable effort. It took him three attempts to unhorse Blount, as it was with Haigh, but Frey, with the back sound of the startled exclamations from the crowd, nearly knocked the mystery knight off the saddle in the very first run, and after another five, lord Frey himself plopped down on the sand. The crowd of common folk gathered behind the fence welcomed the victory of the Knight of the Laughing Tree with great joy, thinking him to be the defender of the weak and humble. From both lord Blount and lord Frey the knight also did not want any ransom or their armour and horses, which was now rightfully his, and, like the first time, he only demanded from the lords to teach their squires due honour.

“Whatever you say, I liked this lad,” ser Oswell smiled. “This is what I call the underestimation of the opponent! Who could have said that such a little one would defeat seasoned knights?”

“Courage and good intentions must be rewarded,” Prince Rhaegar said. “Perhaps the Gods themselves wished him victory.”

“Let the knight of the Laughing Tree come here!” The King shouted in a croaking voice, and all muffled talks subsided immediately, and all eyes turned to Aerys. He became pale from the anger that gripped him and was breathing heavily, the King's lips formed a smirk which resembled an evil grin and bared his black rotten teeth.

Obeying the order, the knight rode closer to the royal box and bowed his head respectfully.

“Tell me your name,” Aerys demanded, minting every word like a coin.

“I am the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Your Grace,” the young boy responded boldly, and Jaime's heart sank in anticipation of a hurricane ready to strike. Lannister had heard about the King’s fits of insanity, and now everything was leading for one of them bursting out of the King for all to witness.

“Your real name,” Aerys shouted evilly.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” the knight turned out to be no less insane, since he allowed himself to refuse the King, “however I would prefer to remain unrecognized.”

“You bastard!” Cried the King. “Tear off his helmet immediately and drag him here,” he ordered his house guard, “now the boy will learn what punishment follows the failure to fulfill the royal order.”

The knight, barely hearing these words, looked around in alarm, evaluating his possibilities. He spurred his horse and, taking advantage of the confusion that arose for a very short while, he galloped away, raising clouds of dust around him. The crowd roared, mixing curses, cries of support and surprise in a single rumble, an unimaginable noise arose and it was already impossible to make out anything.

“Catch him!” Aerys yelled. “Catch him now! He’s one of the bloody Starks! Traitors! I knew they were traitors!”

“Father,” Prince Rhaegar rose from his seat, while Jaime crawled back into the very corner of the royal box, like a scared mouse about to be caught, “I beg you, do not speak so loud, they can hear us. Why do you think it's one of the Starks? Look, there they all are, sitting in their own box.”

“That's right,” Aerys hissed. “You should look closer, son, there are only two of them, but where is the boy? The youngest that always spins around his older brothers? This knight wore a weirwood on his shield, and who, except for the Starks, could come up with this?”

“Father,” the Prince repeated firmly in a quiet and calm voice, nervously glancing at the Starks’ box, “it was just a silly boy who wished to receive his share of glory, I assure you, he did not plot anything against you.”

“Why are you defending him like that, huh?” Aerys snorted. “How do I know, maybe you also have some backroom deals with the Starks? Go and bring this crappy knight to me!”

“Father,” desperation vibrated in Prince Rhaegar's voice, and Jaime now genuinely sympathized with him. The King was already plunged into the abyss of his own madness, and his son was no longer able to pull Aerys out of this quagmire, which swallowed him deeper and deeper. His seemingly loyal advisers were silent all this time, watching the conversation of the King and his heir, as if it was only another round of jousting.

“You didn't understand what I’ve told you?” The King screeched, spraying saliva all around him. “Go, otherwise I will order for you to be put into custody.”

Rhaegar turned white, he bowed briefly and walked away from the box, however, suddenly noticing Jaime, he stopped.

“Please, ser Jaime, take my wife away from him,” the Prince whispered, looking around cautiously, as if a beast at bay. “It doesn't matter where to, just get her away.”

“I will do it, Your Highness, you don’t have to worry,” Jaime assured him.

Rhaegar Targaryen nodded shortly and nervously, and then quickly left. The King, having already forgotten about his son, called for the remaining lords and knights to pursue the young insolent boy and promised a generous reward for his capture. Jaime heard Robert Baratheon and Richard Lonmouth swear to find out who it was and personally bring the Knight of the Laughing Tree to the King. The jousts were stopped, many of the spectators had left their seats and rushed to saddle the horses in order to set off in search of the little fellow, who had excited everyone so much.

Jaime, not wasting time, went to his sister and, grabbing her hand, dragged her away, but they did not have time to leave the royal box. Aerys' croaking voice had reached them, causing Jaime to stop.

“Come here, Lannister.”

Aerys spoke calmer, but it did not allow Jaime to feel less afraid. Without releasing Cersei's hand, he approached the King.

“Where are you heading?” Aerys inquired.

“His Highness...” Jaime wondered if Prince Rhaegar was worth mentioning now, but nothing else crossed his mind. It was as if his head had suddenly become empty, and thoughts had run out of it as the audience was now running away from the stands. “His Highness ordered me to escort his wife to the castle.”

“Good,” the King nodded. “For the first time, I will forgive you your shortsightedness, but remember, from now on: you only follow my orders. Mine and mine only. Is that clear enough?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jaime swallowed.

“Follow the prince’s order,” the King continued coldly, “then you can be free. At dawn, saddle your horse and head to King's Landing to serve Queen Rhaella and Princess Visenya.”

The meaning of this order did not reach Jaime at once, and he continued to stand, staring stupidly at the King and clutching his sister's cold hand in his palm. Instead, ser Gerold Hightower spoke, having stood all this time beside him.

“Your Grace, allow me go to the capital. Young Lannister, for sure, would like to prove himself in the tournament.”

The hope that had flared up in Jaime's heart went out as fast as it was lit, when Lannister saw the King's twisted lips.

“He won’t win fame here,” Aerys snapped. “I need him in the Red Keep, and I need you here. I command, and you obey. Get out!”

Jaime didn’t remember how they left the stands and how he took Cersei to her chambers. She did not even try to console him or cheer him up. Apparently, his success in the tournament meant nothing to her, she expected that Prince Rhaegar would win and crown her with the queen of love and beauty’s laurel accompanied by the roar of the crowd. In her plans, her brother was assigned the humble role of a faithful dog, and he had finally understood this only now.

Jaime felt crushed, killed, destroyed. The sun will not sparkle on his new white armour, defeated rivals will not fall on the sand, instead he will go to the capital to guard the eternally sad queen and his niece ‒ the little princess, the child of Cersei and Rhaegar. The glory will belong to others, but only self-pity and boredom remains for him.

After spending the rest of the day shutting himself in his room and lamenting about his unjust fate, Jaime went to the stables with the onset of darkness wishing to make orders for his horse to be saddled and well fed at dawn and be ready to take its owner back to King’s Landing. Lights still burned and the idle chatter of the stable hands was heard from various corners: not all knights and lords had returned from their search for the mystery knight, and some had settled in the pubs and taverns of Harrenton.

The horse snorted in displeasure right behind Jaime, Lannister turned sharply, and the silver mane of Prince Rhaegar's stallion flashed in the darkness.

“Ser Jaime?” The Prince dismounted, taking his horse by the bridle. An estranged, slightly dreamy smile played on the Prince's lips, his indigo eyes shone brightly in the darkness. “What brought you here at such an hour?”

“Your Highness,” Jaime bowed. “Your father ordered me to go to King's Landing tomorrow morning; I came to care about my horse.”

“I'm sorry,” Prince Rhaegar spoke sincerely, and Jaime felt ashamed of his wish from yesterday to unhorse the Prince whatever cost. It would be better if he won the tournament, and Cersei got her desired laurel. The Dragon Prince is worthy of victory, and his wife is already the most beautiful lady among the guests, this does not have to be explained to anyone.

“And what about you, Your Highness?” Jaime asked curiously. “Have you found that knight?”

“No,” Prince Rhaegar shook his head, and his face somehow changed strangely. He seemed to be holding back a smile with difficulty. “Only his shield. He had crossed a forest stream, and then his trace was lost.”

“The king will be angry,” Jaime stated the obvious.

“I’ve gotten used to it for a long time,” the Prince answered too calmly. “And I advise you to get used to it as well. Good night, ser Jaime.”

Having said goodbye to Prince Rhaegar, Jaime found the stable boy and gave the necessary orders quite dryly. He preferred to end this quickly and leave: the sympathetic mien of the little boy disgusted him. Before going to bed, Jaime decided to visit his sister. Elaine, her maid, informed him that Her Highness was spending the night in her tent, for it had become stuffy in the rooms.

Jaime was at the point of abandoning this venture, but still went to the tent camp. Despite the late hour, life here, as always, was in full swing: people drank, exchanged gossip, danced and had fun. Only closer to the monumental royal tent made of black silk and hanging over the rest of the camp, like a giant spider, the noise died down so that one could hear the rustle of the wind in the grass. Bright light penetrated through the dark fabric, and the King's ever displeased voice could be heard. Apparently, Prince Rhaegar had come to his father with a disappointing report.

The tent belonging to the Princess was smaller and was made of scarlet fabric that flattered on the Lannister banners. When the lights were lit inside, the tent resembled a wizard's house from fairy tales. This thought made Jaime smile, and he had already touched the tender silk to push it away, but voices coming from inside stopped him. He froze and listened.

“I know, I know,” his sister sobbed. “This by no means an error. Elaine told me about it this afternoon.”

“Why are you so sure, Your Highness?” A man's voice answered. It seemed familiar to Jaime, but Lannister could not remember where exactly he had heard it.

“Prince Rhaegar cannot be mistaken for someone else,” the sobs intensified. “He was there, at the godswood, with another woman.”

“Do you know with whom exactly?” The man spoke calmly.

“No, no,” Cersei could not control her sobs. “I knew, I knew ...”

“I know about your difficulties, Your Highness,” the man's voice sounded kindly, “and I can help you.”

“I do not understand you ...” the sobbing suddenly stopped.

“Let me explain.”

Jaime did not listen further, he suddenly felt sick. He let go of the fabric, which he still continued to squeeze between his fingers, and carefully, so as not to attract attention, he stepped aside. In the royal tent, Aerys chided his son, a cheerful hum came from the camp, but Jaime was no longer concerned. For the first time in the day, he really wanted to leave for King’s Landing as soon as possible.

As Jaime headed towards the castle, the first drops of the starting rain fell on his forehead.


	19. Lyanna IV

Lyanna's heart was fluttering and singing with joy, like a bird in the spring. Her lips parted slightly in anticipation of pleasure and touched Rhaegar's soft and moist ones, not allowing him to break their long and thrilling kiss for a single moment. Lyanna's hands lay on his strong, sharp shoulders and pulled him closer to her, and his palms gently stroked her back, making her body tremble and cling to the Prince even harder.

“Lady Lyanna,” Rhaegar's voice cracked, his hot, irregular breathing tickled her skin nicely, and Lyanna felt something sting invitingly in her lower belly. A loud moan escaped her lips.

“Lady Lyanna,” someone shouted right into her ear. Lyanna jumped up on the bed, and bruises covering her body echoed with the sharp pain. Lotha’s freckled face loomed in front of girl’s eyes, the servant was staring at her mistress with unhidden worry.

“Good morning, Lotha,” Lyanna said, trying her best to calm her ragged breathing.

“Are you feeling well, my lady?” Lotha asked. “You tossed and turned in your sleep and groaned, I was afraid that you were sick again.”

“No, I’m fine,” Lyanna dismissed the servant’s concerns hastily, feeling her cheeks being flooded with colour, like ripe tomatoes in the greenhouses of Winterfell. “You shouldn’t worry.”

“Lord Brandon’s sent me to inquire if you are going to watch the final jousts today?” Lotha asked.

“Yes,” Lyanna nodded. “Yes, I’m feeling better, and today I can finally leave the bed. Please arrange for a bath and bring that blue satin dress that my father gave me before leaving for the capital. I will wear it today.”

Lotha left her mistress to carry out her errands, and Lyanna fell back on the soft pillows with a loud sigh. She touched her cheeks carefully to find them still blazing with bashful fire. She wondered if Lotha had noticed this, and if she had, what had it make her think? Lyanna felt a pleasant, but at the same time demanding, languor throughout her body, the expectation of something that urgently longed for a release, but Lyanna had no idea how to go on with it. Her muscles were tense, and her heart continued to thump loudly in her chest. Lyanna sighed impulsively, dragging in the air loudly with her nose. What a strange dream to have... From the very slightest remembrance of her dream, the girl experienced incredible embarrassment. Lyanna thought that if she had to look into Prince Rhaegar’s eyes again, she would die from shame.

She should have stopped thinking about him, she should not have encouraged him, looked at him, talked to him, melted under his gaze. However, both Lyanna’s mind and body no longer obeyed their mistress, and now her dreams were overflown with his kisses, for which she secretly longed more than for anything else. It would be better for Lyanna to return home to Winterfell and never see Rhaegar again. The image of the Prince would haunt her for some time, but then it would dissipate gradually, like white morning fog, it would fade from her memory, and Lyanna would be able to breathe freely again. However, she could not leave, and there was no choice but to suffer, dreaming of someone who would never belong to her in her entire life.

Hot water caressed away the goosebumps pleasantly and helped the tense muscles to relax a little. The bruises that covered her skin with a motley pattern were painted in different colours: black, blue, green, yellow. It was them that forced the girl to lie down in bed for two days, claiming illness, for almost every movement caused her discomfort and pain, and Lyanna was afraid that this would be too noticeable to the rest and would cause unnecessary questions. Only Benjen knew the truth about Lyanna’s alleged illness, she said to Lotha that her horse had stumbled making her fall, and forbade to talk to anyone about it, and her older brothers attributed her poor health to womanly ailments.

At first, the whole thing with the mystery knight seemed something like another adventure to Lyanna, akin to her nighttime outings into the streets of King’s Landing away from the keep or secret exercises with the sword in the godswood. Ben spent almost all the money father had given him for an armour, a lance, and a horse for her. He was eager to dress up as a knight himself, but Lyanna objected to it. Since this was her idea, then she should be the one to enter the lists. Her younger brother had sulked for some time, lamenting that the girl would get all the glory, but his natural curiosity had soon prevailed over the insult, and Ben was back in the venture.

Mismatched armour was uncomfortable: it pressed tightly on the chest, and in some places it was too loose, the dapple-grey horse did not wish to obey the new owner all at once, and no matter how much she urged him with her heels, he continued to stand, not wanting to make a single step forward. All these difficulties, however, did not bother Lyanna. She believed that justice was on her side, and the Old Gods would help her fulfill her plan. Even on her shield she had painted a smiling weirwood all by herself: she wanted everyone know that the Gods of the North were with her and protected her. Lyanna could not even think then that this would draw the Mad King to the thought of the Starks.

She had managed to befriend her dapple-gray horse with the help of a juicy apple and sweet carrots, and this success had assured the Stark girl of her own invulnerability all over again. In truth, Lyanna became frightened only when she rode out onto the jousting field to the sound of trumpets and cheering from the crowd and saw lord Haigh in front of her on a strong muscular war horse.

_What am I doing?_ she thought then. _He can just poke me with a thin cane, and I will fall down to the sand immediately._

Blood rumbled in her ears, and because of the heavy helmet on her head, it seemed to Lyanna that she had sunk deep under the water. Her hands under weighty chain mail gloves were sticky, and drops of sweat covered her forehead while she tried to remember everything that the master at arms at Winterfell had ever taught her. Lyanna sensed the metallic smell of armour steel and her own sweat, the muffled roar of the crowd was heard as if from long distance. Lyanna wanted desperately for all of this to end soon, better in the very first round, but this wish of hers was not to be so easily granted.

Dapple-grey stallion rushed at full speed towards her opponent. Through the narrow slots of her helmet, Lyanna watched every movement of lord Haigh very carefully, trying desperately to figure out where he would strike, and almost forgot to aim herself. Just before the blow was to hit her, Lyanna, as ser Rodrik Cassel had repeated to her many times, stood up on stirrups, tucked herself up and quickly leaned forward, putting all her strength into her own blow. The shaft of her lance crackled, and lord Haigh’s lance had only slashed her helmet almost gently, for she managed to bend her head down in time.

After the first round, her fear became weaker, Lyanna began to watch more attentively and sharply, aim more accurately and hit harder, improving her tactics with every new joust. However, even having achieved her first victory, so vital for her, Lyanna was not able to truly enjoy it, because two more opponents were waiting for her ahead. She was afraid that someone would recognize her high girlish voice, she was afraid that being defeated and thrown onto the sand, she would be dragged by the hair to the royal box. What would Prince Rhaegar say to this? Would he condemn her or pity her?

The gods that day were indeed on her side. Her body ached terribly, but all her opponents were defeated. Only lord Frey almost managed to unhorse her, if Lyanna were bigger, but heavier, she would certainly have fallen, but her delicate, graceful constitution helped her to hold on and celebrate such a long-awaited victory. Truth be told, she let herself triumph ahead of time. Lyanna could never have imagined that King Aerys himself would get angry with the Knight of the Laughing Tree as she was called. There was nothing special about the mystery knights on tournaments: they often came as if from nowhere and went back to nowhere as well, making the audience guess who they really were. The Mad King saw the plots against him in everything, he saw one in her now.

Lyanna did not remember where had she found the strength in herself to escape. Perhaps the same fear made her eyes sharper, allowing her to notice a gap among the guards, and the Old Gods granted alacrity to her horse. As soon as she spurred dappled-grey stallion, he jumped up immediately and galloped exactly where she had directed him. The roar of the crowd rang in her ears, the black and red colours of the Targaryen house guard and the black and yellow colours of Lord Whent's guards flickered in the slits of her helmet. Lyanna did not turn back and did not look around, she only rushed forward at full speed. One of the black and red guards, was blocking her way, but Lyanna did not even think to slow down, and he jumped to the side in horror, showering her with curses.

A wooden fence surrounding the jousting field loomed already ahead. The hurdle was not high, and Lyanna was a good rider, if only the horse would serve her faithfully this time too. _Come, my dear_ , she whispered, and, upon hearing her plead, the dapple-gray stallion jumped easily over the fence and rushed into the open fields which lay around Harrenhal. Only by the time she had reached the edge of the forest, Lyanna allowed herself to draw reins and pull the horse into a step. Having gone deeper into the woods, she stopped and dismounted, giving the stallion and herself a break.

First, Lyanna pulled off her helmet and inhaled a deep breath of the fresh forest air. Her long hair, wet with sweat, fell on her forehead, and her nose was filled with the pleasant scent of fir needles and damp ground. Lyanna tied her horse to a tree and began to get rid of the armour and the warm gambeson, which made her feel unbearably hot. Without someone’s help, it turned out to be uncomfortable, and she spent a long time with numerous fasteners and ties. When she was finally finished and was dressed only in her tunic and breeches, Lyanna stuffed the mismatched pieces of her armour into a large canvas bag that was tied to the saddle, and climbed back onto the dapple-gray horse. She had to hurry: Ben was to wait for her at the pointed place with Dayflower and a clean dress.

Lyanna was not riding too fast, she was listening carefully to the forest and trying to catch any strange sounds, but on her way, she was accompanied only by the chirping of birds and the rustling of the wind, and soon the girl was sure that she had truly deceived her pursuers. When she was already approaching the right place, through the palisade of thick tree trunks she saw a male figure in a hood, which was pacing from side to side in anxiety. Lyanna smiled, so Ben was already here.

To her greatest surprise from under the hood the indigo eyes of Rhaegar Targaryen stared at her instead of Benjen’s grey ones.

He took several steps to meet her, and she squeezed the reins with all her might, ready to break into the full gallop at any moment. What is the Prince doing here? How did he know about this place? Did he come to save her or to arrest her and deliver her to the King?

“Lady Lyanna?” He muttered hesitantly, noticing evidently her sudden hostility.

“Where is my brother?” She blurted out in dismay.

"He's all right," the Prince replied shortly. “You have nothing to worry about. You can get off the horse and I will tell you everything.”

“You won't arrest me?” Lyanna asked warily.

“No. Not at all,” a relieved smile flashed on the Prince's face. “Why did it even occur to you?”

“The king is angry with me,” Lyanna explained, jumping off her horse. “I thought he had sent you for me.”

“That's true,” Prince Rhaegar replied with a sigh, “my father’s sent me to find the Knight of the Laughing Tree and bring him to the king.”

“But you won't do it, will you?” Lyanna repeated, not believing what she was hearing.

“I’ve already told you that I won’t,” the Prince's voice sounded tired. “You have acted in a foolish, rash way, lady Lyanna. As a result of your actions, your family is in danger, and I will have to make excuses to my father. Why did you do this? Did you desire adventure? Glory? What were you looking for?”

Lyanna gave no answer. Hot tears of resentment, poured down her cheeks against her will, and she began to wipe them furtively, although it was already clear that Prince Rhaegar had seen everything. The Prince scolded her the way lord Stark had done, and Lyanna was horrified to confess to herself that Rhaegar was right about everything, except perhaps for her motives. How badly did he think of her?

“You are mistaken”, Lyanna's voice trembled betraying her, giving her away completely, “I wanted neither adventure nor glory, I just wished to defend the honour of my friend and restore justice,” having said this, she laid out the whole story of that happened to Howland Reed to the Prince.

The Prince remained silent and looked piercingly at Lyanna. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to say something, but could not find proper words, and he held his hands in front of him with his fingers locked tightly. Lyanna lowered her eyes, continuing to wipe her tears with the sleeves of her tunic, but they flowed down faster than she could get rid of them. Suddenly she wanted the Prince to embrace and comfort her. As if having heard her thoughts, Rhaegar took a step forward, unclenched his hands, and froze, frightened, apparently, of his own sudden impulse. Lyanna gave a short sob and made a step towards him, but did not advance further, offering him to decide for himself. She heard a heavy sigh, and Rhaegar's arms wrapped around her waist and her cheek was pressed against the soft fabric of his doublet.

“Don't cry,” he whispered. “Please don't cry. I said nonsense, I knew nothing about lord Reed. You did the right thing. Rash indeed, but fair and bold.”

Lyanna raised her head and looked at the Prince. His face was so close that if she stood on tiptoe, she could touch his lips. Rhaegar kept his eyes on her and smiled softly.

“Do you really think so?” Lyanna asked, fascinated.

“I do,” the Prince's smile widened. “I think that you are the kindest and bravest girl I know.”

For a while they did not move, continuing to look at each other. Lyanna put her hands carefully on his shoulders, and Rhaegar did not stop her, only pulled her closer to him. He smelled of lemon and mint, dusty doublet velvet, wood and horse, and Lyanna was so intoxicated by his scent as if she had drunk a good couple of goblets of Arbor gold. She didn’t want to let go of the Prince, her fingers gripped the thick fabric of the cloak on his shoulders, but Rhaegar, as if he had come to his senses, released her from his embrace and walked away. The numbness let go of her body, and Lyanna suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Judging by the look on Rhaegar's face, he was experiencing a very similar feeling. The Prince turned away for a moment, apparently putting himself in order, and then looked again at Lyanna, his face had already acquired a serious, worried expression.

“The king has promised a reward for your capture, my lady,” the Prince said quietly. “He suspects that the Knight of the Laughing Tree is one of the Starks, the weirwood painted on your shield has brought him to strongly believe in this notion. However, it would never occur to him that a young maiden could pretend to be a knight, so the king's accusations fell on your younger brother Benjen, who, apparently, being in a hurry to meet with you, disappeared from the Stark box at the very inconvenient time. I found him in the stables, saddling your filly, and told him to go back, promising to take his role as your rescuer. The boy was very upset, however, I explained to him that if he did not appear in front of the king immediately, he would not be able to ever come back. Your horse should have been left in the stables so as not to attract prying eyes, but I brought your clothes for you.” Rhaegar handed her a parcel, which she had used to pack her gray woolen dress this morning. “You need to change; you are cold in this thin tunic.”

Lyanna watched as the Prince's gaze travelled uncertainly along her form, and her cheeks flushed again. She took the bundle from his hands hesitantly and walked towards the trees.

"You don't need to leave," Rhaegar called out to her. “I won’t look.”

Lyanna pondered, but then nodded briefly and agreed. Taking off her tunic and breeches and pulling on a dress along with the thick layers of underwear, she kept glancing back at the Prince, but he, true to his word, stood with his back to her and shifted nervously from foot to foot.

“I’m done!” Lyanna called to him.

“Good,” Rhaegar nodded. “Now we need to get rid of the horse and armour. You will give me the shield, and I will take it to the king. Now let's go to the nearest stream, we will have to cross it, and after that let your horse go. If they ask me, I will tell that I followed the knight to the stream, and then his trail was lost. As for the armour, we will throw it into the lake. Do you agree?”

Lyanna agreed dutifully, silently thanking the Prince for what he was doing for her. The Prince went up to his horse, and only now Lyanna noticed that it was not the silver-black destrier that the Prince usually rode, but a small chestnut mare.

“And where is your beautiful stallion?” She asked.

“Jelmio?” the Prince asked but seeing confusion on her face added: “That’s his name, in Valyrian it means wind. I'm afraid he's too noticeable, so today I chose Autumn.” Rhaegar patted the chestnut mare tenderly on the withers and brought her closer to Lyanna, allowing the girl to stroke the horse too. “She is meek, but very strong. However, we must hurry, my lady. Off we go!”

At first, Rhaegar took her to a small forest lake, where they threw a bundle with Lyanna's armour and men's clothing into the water, then, after riding a little along a narrow but fast flowing stream, they halted. The Prince told the girl to mount Autumn, and he led the dapple-grey stallion across the stream and released him. At first, the horse stared at the Prince in bewilderment, not understanding what to do, and tried to go back. Then Rhaegar led him even further away and, hitting stallion’s rump with his palm, ordered him to gallop away. The dappled-gray horse snorted resentfully, but obeyed and soon disappeared among the trees.

Upon his return, the Prince climbed into the saddle behind Lyanna and, hitting the sides of Autumn, set her into a trot towards the castle. Lyanna sat unnaturally upright, clutching the saddle horn. Her back and the Prince's chest were less than an inch apart, and she feared that as soon as this distance were covered, she would eventually drown in his arms and never be able to come back out of this abyss. Rhaegar was dangerously, temptingly close. Lyanna felt his breath on her hair, and, dropping the reins, his left hand held her gently around the waist. Lyanna told herself that she should be offended, but she was not, even through the thick fabric of the dress and undershirts, she felt the warmth of the Prince's palm. And what if she wore no clothes at all, what if Rhaegar touched her bare skin like that with his tender, slightly rough fingers? Lyanna squinted and shook her head, as if trying to shake such an obscene thought away. It was good that the Prince did not see her flaming face. Had he looked at her burning cheeks now, he would probably have laughed at her.

Lyanna closed her eyes, feeling that she was sinking deeper into the sweet bliss. Somewhere far away, an inner voice screamed that she should not do this, but Lyanna seemed to have stopped listening to it long ago. Sighing softly, she leaned back, pressing her back against the Prince's chest. His hand on the girl's waist trembled and squeezed her even tighter. Lyanna heard him take in the air just above her ear, and suddenly realized that she could no longer breathe evenly herself. Her body tensed, as if expecting something, and Lyanna tightened her grip on the saddle horn.

“We’re here,” Rhaegar said hoarsely, breaking into Lyanna’s confused thoughts. She flinched at the sound of his voice and tried to pull herself together.

The Prince dismounted and helped Lyanna down. It was already getting dark, and in the twilight of the evening it was difficult for her to see his face well enough, and for some reason he no longer looked into her eyes, but preferred to fiddle with the girth or study the toes of his own boots. Lyanna, on the other hand, was glad of this, because the piercing indigo eyes would plunge her into even greater awkwardness, which she would no longer be able to hide.

“Those tall trees over there,” Rhaegar said, pointing somewhere to the side, “are the godswood of Harrenhal. You will have to go there on foot, I cannot risk being seen with you, as this may cause unnecessary suspicion in the King. Stay hidden and don't go anywhere. As soon as possible, I will send your brother to take you out of there. Have you figured out what to say if someone comes upon you?”

“I will tell that my head ached from the stuffiness, and I went to get some air, and at the same time to pray to the Old Gods to grant my brother some luck for tomorrow’s joust,” it was not difficult to come up with such a small lie.

“Good,” the Prince approved. “Now I have to leave you, my lady.”

As if contradicting his words, Rhaegar continued to stand, hands down and fingers clasped together. What was he waiting for? Or did he wish to say something else, but hesitated?

“Your Highness,” Lyanna addressed him herself. The Prince perked up and finally looked at her. “I can find no words to express how grateful I am to you. If not for you...”

“Don't think about it,” the Prince interrupted. “And don’t thank me. I was glad to help you, lady Lyanna, your safety is my greatest concern.”

Rhaegar continued to stare at her, as if expecting some answer, but Lyanna had no idea of what she should possibly say to him now. His gaze frightened and attracted her at the same time, making her hands tremble, and her thoughts become more and more confused.

“Good luck in the tournament, Your Highness,” she blurted out the silliest thing she could think of.

“Thank you,” the Prince said with disappointment, but almost at the same instant he smiled affectionately and added: “Now, I’m also in possession of one of your secrets, lady Lyanna. Let us assume that we are even.”

“Or we will have to kill each other,” Lyanna laughed.

Climbing into the saddle, Rhaegar winked at her, gifted her with the smile that flashed like lightning in the darkness and galloped away. A shield with a smiling weirwood was strapped to his saddle. Lyanna looked after him for a long time, wanting him to turn back and look at her again, but the Prince kept staring in front of him until his figure had finally disappeared into the twilight.

Lyanna made the rest of her way without any incident. She did not meet anyone on the road leading to the godswood, and she did not have to think of an excuse to explain herself. Late in the evening, when everyone had gone to bed, Ben did indeed come to take her home and said that the King seemed to have believed that the Starks had nothing to do with the mystery knight, but the reward for the capture of the Knight of the Laughing Tree still stood, and they both should be very careful. Her younger brother’s words had Lyanna calmed down a little, but they could not completely allay her fear. Now it seemed to her that as soon as the King saw her, he would immediately guess that it was her, and after that neither she nor her family should expect any good.

_Old Gods, you helped me once, so don't leave me now_ , Lyanna prayed, ascending to her box on the last day of the jousting competition. She glanced furtively at the King, but he looked his usual frowning and displeased self. His brows were knitted together, his dark eyes were blank. Standing behind Aerys, Oswell Whent caught Lyanna's eye and smiled reassuringly at her. The girl answered him with a grateful smile, her heart feeling a little easier. If only something more significant happened, and the King would completely forget about the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

At first, Lyanna had separated her attention between the royal box and the lists, but soon the jousting captured her completely. Prince Rhaegar, clad in black armour with a three-headed dragon lined in rubies on his breast plate, rode out onto the field, which was already dug up by horse’s hooves. When Lyanna had caught sight of him, she forgot about everything else entirely, worrying with all her heart for the Prince. Today Rhaegar rode his beautiful Jelmio, the rays of the sun shining through the clouds played in the destrier’s silver mane. The Prince's opponent was the Sword of the Morning no less, and Lyanna's heart beat faster. She liked Arthur Dayne, but she wanted Rhaegar Targaryen to win this competition. Even though this meant that the queen of love and beauty’s laurel would befall the golden head of Princess Cersei, Lyanna did not care. It was just pretense, just a ripple on the water that did not truly mean anything.

Rhaegar and Arthur exchanged some words with each other, and both laughed, for a moment Lyanna thought that the Prince glanced towards the stands and caught her eye. She felt like nodding to him, but she was afraid to do it in front of her brothers. Outwardly, Lyanna tried to keep her face impassive, but her younger brother had warmly supported the Dragon Prince. After the first round, when both knights remained on horseback, Ben shouted Crown Prince’s name frantically and clapped his hands.

“What happened to you Benjen?” Brandon asked jokingly. “I remember that earlier you used to idolize ser Arthur Dayne.”

“I decided that I liked the Dragon Prince better,” Ben explained, but Lyanna could see how his eyes darted to the side, because the younger Stark could not tell his brother the true reason for changing his preferences. “He is talented not only as a warrior, but also as a person experienced in arts, I think the other knights should strive for this as well.”

"Hmm," Brandon shrugged thoughtfully. “There is nothing special about composing sweet ballads. I think, I should support ser Arthur. If he wins, he'll give the laurel to his sister, won't he? Look, they have broken both their lances again.”

Eddard said nothing to his brother, only clenched his jaw angrily and frowned even deeper.

“You say so,” Lyanna interjected, “because the Prince defeated you too.”

She remembered with shame that when she had heard about the joust between Rhaegar and her brother, she had been delighted with the victory of the Prince and had not sympathized in the least with Brandon’s wounded pride.

“No, no,” the elder Stark snorted. “In this matter, I remain impartial. Whom do you support yourself?”

“I'm afraid this question has lost its relevance,” Lyanna shook her head. “The Prince has unhorsed ser Arthur.”

Not listening to Brandon's disgruntled mooing, Lyanna joined happily the overall hubbub that rose in honour of the Prince's victory. Let her brother think that she was doing it to spite him, as it would be much better than if he ever found out about Lyanna's true feelings. In that case he probably would have immediately challenged the Dragon Prince to a single combat.

The next round was won by Barristan Selmy, the knight of the Kingsguard, and now it was he who had to compete with Rhaegar Targaryen for the title of the winner of the Harrenhal tournament. Lyanna could not take her eyes off the lists, but her restless brothers distracted her constantly with their silly chatter.

“They say ser Barristan is partial to Ashara Dayne.” The reminder of his own defeat made Brandon unbearable. “Look, Ned, he’s looking at the Dayne’s box now.”

Lyanna was not interested in ser Barristan's love affairs, and she did not even turn her head in his direction. Prince Rhaegar found her eyes again, and this time she closed her eyes pointedly, silently wishing him luck. The Prince smiled as if to nowhere and rode off to the starting position. Rubies shimmered on his chest like drops of blood, frozen and turned to stone.

“If I were you, Bran,” Eddard hissed, losing his temper, “instead of discussing other people's preferences, I'd rather pay attention to my own bride. Lady Catelyn goes everywhere with her sister, and you accompany Elia Martell...”

“I knew you were a bore, Ned,” Brandon let out a feigned sigh of despair, “but that’s already overstepped all boundaries…”

“Do shut up, both of you!” Lyanna exclaimed in anger after the next round did not reveal the winner. She covered her ears with her hands in an emphatic manner, not wanting to listen to her brother's squabble anymore.

The tension grew, the crowd hummed, Ben next to her screamed so loudly that he threatened to strain his voice, and Bran and Ned continued to quarrel, as if they had completely forgotten about the jousting. Lyanna leaned so far forward in excitement that she had almost bent over the wooden railings of the box. Time seemed to have flowed more slowly, Lynna saw how the muscles of the strong destriers played as they rushed towards each other, how the knights, one black and the other dazzling white, stood up on the stirrups, how they were preparing to strike. Ser Barristan's spear had slid across the Prince's black-and-red shield, while Rhaegar had hit the target. The white knight drew back, trying to hold on, but the blow was too strong, and Selmy fell out of his saddle with a deafening roar of the crowd and landed to the ground, raising a fountain of sand.

Rhaegar jumped deftly off his horse and, having got rid of the helmet, helped his opponent back to his feet, while the heralds announced his success, and the master of the tournament declared the Prince the winner of the jousting competition. The tumult rose in a way that Lyanna had never heard in her life. Of all the spectators that gathered that day in Harrenhal, only King Aerys did not applaud his son and heir, while the rest rejoiced, welcoming the victory of their beloved Dragon Prince.

Rhaegar, meanwhile, returned to the saddle, and the master of the tournament brought him the queen of love and beauty’s laurel on a red velvet cushion and carefully hoisted it on the tip of the Prince's lance. Lyanna marveled that the laurel was made of the blue winter roses she loved so much. Prince Rhaegar, judging by his confused expression, was also surprised by the choice of flowers. He froze in place and stared at the laurel for a long time, as if totally perplexed. Finally, his face brightened, he raised his gaze to the audience and rode towards the still cheering stands.

On his way to the royal box, the Prince passed Tullys, Martells and Daynes, however, Rhaegar did not halt in front of his wife. Princess Cersei's face, which had previously beamed with a smile, stretched in horror, and the noise of the crowd became quieter. Many stopped shouting and clapping altogether, wondering what the Prince would do next. Brandon and Ned seized fighting, and Benjen sat with his mouth open in surprise. Lyanna went cold as Rhaegar rode up to the Starks' box. A ringing silence reigned around, and the girl realized that all the stares were now directed only at her and the Prince standing in front of her. Lyanna wanted to scream so he wouldn't dare to do it, but it was not in her power to stop Rhaegar. Giving her a long look of sad indigo eyes, the prince lowered the laurel of winter roses onto her lap and proclaimed:

“I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, exercising my right of victor, hereby name lady Lyanna Stark the queen of love and beauty!”

A huge dark purple cloud, covering the sun, cast a shadow on the lists and stands, and the smell of a nearing thunderstorm filled the air. The Prince's breaking voice was picked up by the sudden gust of wind and shattered into pieces against the steel silence.


	20. Rhaegar III

Rhaegar Targaryen maneuvered boldly between the various constructions of the tent camp and the bunches of people who crowded it, annoying drizzle flew in his face along with curious glances. The Prince, however, did not pay attention to either one or the other, he walked confidently and straight, as befits the heir to the throne, and only his hands, which were clenched into fists tightly, betrayed the considerable tension he experienced. Arthur Dayne followed suit, keeping silence. The Sword of the Morning had not said a word from the moment Rhaegar asked the white knight to accompany him, but the condemning gaze of the dark purple eyes was enough for the Prince. Anyway, he understood perfectly well that his friend would never approve of such kind of behaviour. From the outside, the Prince's conduct seemed reprehensible, violating all the existing rules, and now, when the whole burden of the possible consequences had fallen on his shoulders, Rhaegar had finally realized this in its completeness.

Only King Aerys, going down to his son’s tent, patted him on the shoulder and said laughing:

“I had never been able to humiliate Tywin so marvellously. It looks like you're getting wiser.”

Rhaegar feared that his father would accuse him of conspiring with the Starks, but Aerys' hatred of Tywin Lannister seemed to be stronger than the King's suspicious character and mistrustfulness. After speaking to his father, the Prince felt some relief, but at the same time anger. The heir did not want to be perceived like that. Rhaegar had no intention of humiliating either his father-in-law or his wife, but he would never have been able to explain this properly, so the Prince did not offer any reply to his father's words, catching the displeased glances of the kingsguards who accompanied Aerys.

"Arthur," Rhaegar stopped for a moment and looked at his friend. The Prince knew that if he did not ask anything himself, the knight would remain meaningfully silent. “You look at me with such force, as if you are about to burn two holes in my jacket with your eyes.”

“Sorry, Your Highness,” Dayne's voice cut sharp like Valyrian steel, “I can't help myself.”

Arthur caught up with the Prince, and now they walked side by side. The people Rhaegar and his knight had passed stared at them with a mixture of suspicion and interest, and the Prince heard meddlesome whispers behind him. By his own actions, he provided the gossipers with topics for conversation for the next few years. Still, it happens not every day that the Crown Prince does something of the kind, and, what is more, in front of almost the entire kingdom.

“I feel awful,” he admitted quietly to Dayne.

“It pleases me, my prince,” Arthur said, “it means that your conscience is still breathing and, it seems, has every chance of surviving.”

“Arthur, please,” Rhaegar burst out, “stop this mummer’s show. You do not understand everything, you cannot understand it yet!”

“I hope you will excuse my poverty of intellect, my prince,” Dayne did not give up, “but all I see is that you have dishonoured both your wife princess Cersei and the Stark girl on a sudden whim of your mind. Do you know that lady Lyanna would be considered you paramour in these circumstances?”

The Prince threw a quick glance at Arthur and sighed: all the previous scolding that Dayne had for him turned out to be the easy bit, the truly difficult task had arrived only now. Arthur was really very angry, as if Rhaegar had betrayed his trust and friendship. This sudden thought made the Prince feel ashamed, he stopped again and stared his friend in the face.

“Forgive me, my friend,” Rhaegar shook his head. “I shouldn't have spoken to you in that tone. This is not worthy of me, and you do not deserve it. Let me explain. I don’t know if you can understand and accept what I’m going to tell you, but it hurts me to see that judgmental look in your eyes, and before we go to the Starks, I would like for everything to be clear between us.”

“As you say,” it was obvious that Arthur’s consent was reluctant, “I will hear you out, at least for the sake of our friendship.”

They turned back and returned to Rhaegar's tent. The tents belonging to the Princess and the King, which both stood nearby, were already empty, as were the others of the various noble lords: the nobility who lodged inside the castle went to their chambers to prepare for the closing feast, which was to take place in the evening in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. Only Richard Lonmouth sat there alone on a block of wood he had brought from somewhere and was polishing the Prince's armour.

“Go to the castle, Richard,” Rhaegar said softly. “You can take care of the armour later; I won’t need it anytime soon.”

Lonmouth, it seemed, did not expect to see the Prince again so soon, he shuddered all over, jumped, almost dropping the breastplate he held in his hands, and stared at Rhaegar dumbfounded, as if he did not know what to expect.

_At best, they look at me like I’m a madman_ , the Prince thought sadly, _even Richard, my faithful squire. Others just blame me altogether._

“Have you frozen?” Rhaegar tried to smile. “Run, get ready for the feast.”

Lonmouth nodded nervously, placed the breastplate next to the other pieces of armour piled up at the tent's entrance, and having grunted a “thank you”, disappeared in the direction of the castle. Rhaegar, sighing wearily, ducked into the tent and invited Arthur to follow him.

“To be honest, I didn’t expect that from Richard,” the Prince said in disappointment.

“You surprised us all today, Your Highness,” Dayne replied grimly.

“Arthur,” Rhaegar put his hand on his friend's shoulder, expecting that the latter would immediately throw it off, but the knight did not move, “please...”

“Fine, Rhaegar,” Arthur shook his head in disappointment, “speak what you wanted to tell me.”

The Prince fell silent for a moment and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his long fingers, banishing the approaching headache. He knew Dayne well enough to hope that he would take his explanation seriously, but perhaps Arthur would at least try to understand his reasoning.

“Lyanna Stark is destined for me,” the Prince said finally.

Dayne was silent, honestly trying to look serious. At any rate, he didn't object at the very start, which seemed like a good sign to Rhaegar. _Just think_ , the Prince chuckled to himself, _the heir to the Iron Throne is making excuses to his servant. If my father ever found out about this, he would order me to be executed at once._

“Surprisingly, I finally realized this only today,” Rhaegar continued, without receiving any answer from his companion. “I know you’ll think this is silly. Recently, in a conversation, lady Lyanna has mentioned to me that she loves blue winter roses, which grow only at her home, in Winterfell. I did not pay any attention to this then, but I remembered that at once when I saw a laurel of these flowers in the hands of the master of the tournament. Why winter roses, as we all know that they are so expensive and so rare? I don't believe this is just a coincidence. The gods gave me the sign I have been waiting for. The hour has come!”

“Rhaegar,” Dayne interrupted him, “did you give her the laurel just because these are her favourite flowers?”

“Wait,” the Prince put his hand forward, as if in defence, “I have not finished. There is one more important thing. Do you know what the Pact of Ice and Fire is?”

"The contract between Rhaenyra Targaryen and Cregan Stark during the Dance of Dragons? What does it have to do with all this?” Arthur raised his eyebrows in displeasure.

“Yes,” confirmed Rhaegar, “apparently, the history lessons were not a waste of time for you. To be more precise, the contract was made by Rhaenyra's son Jacaerys. In exchange for military support, a hand of any princesses from the House Targaryen was offered to lord Cregan, but the marriage was never to happen, and the pact was not fulfilled. The time to fulfil it has come now.”

“You’re out of your mind, my Prince,” Dayne shook his head desperately, “you’re already married, you cannot marry Lyanna Stark, this is sheer madness!”

“I know,” Rhaegar agreed resignedly. Arthur did not say anything that the Prince himself had not thought over for a thousand times. “However, there is no other way. I need Lyanna Stark. The prince that was promised in the prophecies will be born after a long summer beneath a bleeding star. He will be born amidst salt and smoke and will awaken dragons from stone, and he will have his own song, a Song of Ice and Fire!”

Rhaegar fell silent, and Dayne stared at him as if he was an obsessed old preacher whom one could sometimes meet on the streets of King's Landing and who always predicted a new war, another plague or even the end of the world.

“A Song of Ice and Fire,” Rhaegar repeated. “It’s amazing that I hadn’t thought about it before. I must fulfil the pact, and then the prophecy will realize itself.”

“Are you sure of everything you’ve just said?” Arthur asked with a sigh.

“Yes,” Rhaegar replied firmly.

“Should I remind you,” Dayne didn’t look an inch convinced, “when your wife was expecting, you told me about your prophetic dreams and claimed that your prince that was promised would soon come into this world. However, Princess Visenya was born instead.”

“I was wrong,” Rhaegar was forced to admit, “I still cannot discover a clue to the true essence of these dreams, but I haven’t had them since I left the Red Keep. Perhaps they were there to show me that I was to find Lyanna? She was so very close, and I had no idea about real meaning of it all.”

“However, you were just as sure before,” Arthur continued to press his point. “Why can't you be wrong now?”

“Now I'm right, Arthur,” Rhaegar threw his hands up in the air, “I cannot prove it, but I know it.”

“I see I can't convince you,” Dayne shook his head in confusion. “What do you intend to do next?”

“I don’t know yet,” Rhaegar replied vaguely. “Now I will try to lessen the damage from this incident with the laurel, and on my return home I will consult my books, as they’ve always helped me. So, my friend, are you with me?”

“Yes, Rhaegar, it seems I have nowhere to get away from you,” Dayne cheered up a little, and then, smiling, added: “although, I confess, you’ve disappointed me: I thought you fell head over heels in love with the Stark girl and just succumbed to your feelings. But now you tell me about those pacts and prophecies, even though that is very much like you…”

The Prince said nothing and gave his friend a sidelong glance.

“Wait,” Arthur’s smile widened, “you are in love indeed. Seven hells, Rhaegar! How did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” the Prince muttered, “what are the usual proceedings?”

“If I knew what awaited me here,” Dayne grabbed his head in a feigned gesture, “I’d better leave for the Narrow Sea and become a sellsword. By the power of the Seven, you will bring me to an early grave, my prince.”

“Let's go find the Starks, Arthur,” Rhaegar turned even more serious all at once and left the tent, where he suddenly felt unbearably choky.

This whole talk about the grave, albeit a joky one, saddened him. The Prince truly should have been more circumspect, contemplating his actions and weighing every single step carefully. Probably, he had played a good obedient boy for far too long, he had put his own life and wishes aside for far too long and blindly obeyed his father, so that now his personal inner rebellion was breaking out of him, and the Prince had forgotten about those people who depended on him. Rhaegar had no right to expose his family to danger, otherwise he simply could not live with such a stone weighing on his soul. The Prince's hand jerked up and unbuttoned the top button of his jacket, which was pressed like a noose around his neck. Rhaegar breathed deeply and squeezed his temples with force: the headache still bothered him. Being born the Crown Prince was the evillest joke the Seven could ever play on him.

From the Stark servant, who glanced at Rhaegar as if he were a thief, and not the heir to the Iron Throne, they learned that the young masters had already returned to the castle. The Prince had no choice but to thank the servant with deliberate politeness and go to look for the northerners there. He had to manoeuvre through the crowd again and catch disgruntled and suspicious glances. Some would immediately run to their friends in the nearest tavern to tell them of the look the Dragon Prince wore, when he walked past, some would share their gossip under the dimmed light of the castle chambers, and some would no doubt go to the master of the whisperers or the king himself.

The captain of the Starks home guard stood at the door that led to the chambers assigned to them. Rhaegar remembered him well enough from King's Landing. The bastard. It seemed his name was Albyn. The bastard's expression struck the Prince as impudent, but Rhaegar, feeling that he deserved such an attitude, tried to seem friendly. Snow promised to report to his lords and disappeared behind the door. Silence hung around them, and only then did the Prince catch voices, muffled but clearly audible. They spoke in a raised tone.

“What is that between you and this dragonspawn? Speak now!” Brandon Stark screamed. “Are you his mistress?”

“No,” Lyanna answered with tears, “no. How can you even think that?”

“Brandon, that's enough, calm down,” Rhaegar did not recognize this voice, but he guessed that it belonged to Eddard Stark.

Lyanna's tears and trembling voice made the Prince's dragon blood boil. As calm and gentle as he was, Rhaegar could not stand when people dear to him suffered. He wanted to rush inside all at once, push Brandon Stark aside and carry Lyanna away from here. They could get to Maidenpool on horseback, book a cabin on some merchant ship and, bypassing the Bay of Crabs, sail across the Narrow Sea to Pentos or any other Free City, and there... Arthur’s heavy hand on his shoulder had returned him to reality. What nonsense had come to his mind! Of course, he could not run anywhere, otherwise who would take care of his mother and baby Visenya?

“It's all because of me,” Rhaegar clutched his head, “what have I done?”

A satisfied expression flashed across Dayne's face; however, he did not further torment the Prince with saying that he was always right. The voices, meanwhile, died down. Apparently, Snow told the Starks that the "dragonspawn" was outside their door. After a moment, the Prince was finally deigned to be allowed inside.

Rhaegar entered, keeping his royal pose and outwardly cold calmness, Arthur halted right behind him like his own shadow. Brandon Stark stood in the middle of the chamber and looked at the Prince with predatory eyes, Eddard was settled a little further and seemed to be ready to keep his older brother from irreparable stupidity at any moment. Lyanna with red eyes and lines of tears on her cheeks was sitting in an armchair, the Prince tried to catch her eye, but she turned away sharply.

“Good afternoon,” Rhaegar cleared his throat. The air around him seemed to be filled with wildfire and was about to catch flame and consume them all.

Eddard Stark took a step forward and intended to extend his hand to the Prince as a greeting, but his older brother stopped him.

“So, you’ve come,” Brandon hissed, glaring at Rhaegar.

“I would like to remind you that you are talking to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, lord Brandon,” Arthur Dayne said quietly, and Eddard, turning white with horror, grabbed his brother by the elbow, as if afraid that he would attack the Prince.

“Don't, Arthur,” Rhaegar said softly. Keeping the gaze on the older Stark, he tried to follow Lyanna at least out of the corner of his eye, she was still sitting motionless in the chair and watched what was happening with terror written on her pale face. “Lord Brandon has every right to be angry with me. I came here to explain myself and ask for forgiveness.”

“Go on, then,” Brandon Stark escaped from his brother's hands, “speak, if you are here.”

“I would like to assure you that it was by no means my intention to offend your sister, for I have boundless respect for lady Lyanna. On the contrary, my only desire was to reward her courage and bravery, for I’ve heard how, on the day before the welcoming feast, she had personally chased away the offenders of the good and noble lord Howland Read. The boldness shown by her was much more than what the knights demonstrate on the lists. I thought it unfair that a woman’s courage is rarely rewarded, and I wanted to share my victory with lady Lyanna. I assure you, nothing else was behind this.”

Rhaegar exhaled a barely audible breath. He seemed to sound rather confident. If only that was enough for the Starks, as he had nothing more to say. The silence lay heavily on his shoulders, and the Starks were all silent. The rain had turned into a downpour and drummed on the window panes, Lyanna breathed loudly, trying to hold back sobs, footsteps and laughter of the castle guests was heard from the corridor, but neither Brandon nor Eddard said a word. Rhaegar could no longer tolerate this uncertainty and held out his hand to Brandon Stark. For a few moments his palm hung in the air, but then the older Stark gripped it tightly.

“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “Let it be your way.”

Rhaegar was sure he heard a few sighs of relief.

“I hope you bear no grudge against me either, lady Lyanna,” the Prince said quietly, finally allowing himself to look at her openly.

“No, Your Highness,” Lyanna gave him a blank look, as if she didn’t want to see him at all. Rhaegar wanted so much to talk to her for just a few minutes, but that was impossible. It was clear to him that her brothers would never allow him to accompany her to the feast. This would serve as another insult to all involved partied, and the Prince could no longer allow this to happen.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar bowed his head respectfully. “Now, let me leave you.”

Without another glance in Lyanna’s direction, the Prince went out, feeling that the weight on his shoulders had become a little lighter. He sent Arthur to change for the feast and went to his own chamber too. Common sense whispered to the Prince that he should explain himself to his wife, but Rhaegar had not the slightest desire to see her now. In addition, he did not know what to say, for in his head he only had the explanation that he had offered to the Starks. It poured a healing balm on the wounds inflicted on their family honour, but it would prove to be fatal for Cersei's pride.

With the help of a servant, Rhaegar put on his ceremonial attire reluctantly and placed a thin rim with rubies on his head ‒ a sign that the Prince belonged to the royal family. The Prince's pale face, framed in a neat braid of silver hair, stood out sharply against the black velvet of his camisole, and resembled a moon in the night sky. Silver buttons glittered like stars; royal rubies gleamed dimly. They, too, reminded Rhaegar of the stars: red stars that shed blood.

He will be born after a long summer, when the stars in the sky above will bleed... The Prince still did not know what these words meant, but he clung to them, like a shipwreck survivor to the pieces of the once huge ship now floating on the water, he believed and searched despite everything, he risked his own and someone else's life and honour, and all because of the words said by someone unknown centuries ago. Maybe Arthur was right, and Rhaegar should have forgotten about it all, stop waiting and return to pressing problems? Forget Lyanna Stark, put her out of his head and try to mend relations with his wife again.

Nonsense. Whatever it was, he would never forget Lyanna. As soon as he closes his eyes, he sees her thin elongated face and a shock of brown hair in front of him. Rhaegar reaches out to her, wanting to touch, take her hand, caress her shoulder, but his fingers always grab only air: the beautiful vision disappears, leaving the Prince alone. Whether the prophecy is true or not, he needs Lyanna Stark, he cannot let her go, but equally he cannot possess her, and the realization of this hurts him. He will never be happy with Cersei, as she with him, but she, unlike the Prince, does not want to understand this, and stupid human laws do not give him the opportunity to free himself. All his life, Rhaegar will have to spend in a cage of disgusting marriage, stupid ceremonies, intrigues and hypocrisy, from where he will again and again flee into the world of his dreams, but sooner or later he will remain in this world forever.

_No_ , Rhaegar told himself firmly, _all those who died in Summer_ _hall_ _did not die in vain. I have to do something; may the Old and New Gods help me! Maester Aemon is on my side, he will aid me to get to the bottom of the truth. Why should I sacrifice my happiness, why does the state need a gloomy, crushed king? Why does my daughter need a father who wants nothing and aspires for nothing? What will she understand from looking at her parents' marriage? No, I am right, and I cannot hesitate in my confidence. I will play by their rules, but I will play my own game, and by all the Gods of Westeros, I will win!_

The door banged with a thud, and the Prince went out into the corridor, where his wife was already standing at the window. Hearing Rhaegar's loud footsteps, she turned to him, but didn't say a word. Her face was paler than usual, and her eyes seemed frightened. The Prince also remained silent, only offered her his hand, which she still wordlessly accepted. Rhaegar could not help feeling pity for her, as well as some shame for himself. After all, it is not the Princess's fault that he did not love her. The position they found themselves in, will surely make some of them suffer, perhaps all three at once.

Curious glances stuck to them immediately, as soon as the couple entered the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. The Prince glanced at Cersei: she kept a straight and proud expression, looking around at all those gathered here with a certain amount of contempt. Rhaegar didn't have the strength to smile, but he tried to relax the tense muscles of his face and look friendly and at ease. Passing the already full tables, he politely greeted his acquaintances, bowing his head slightly. Approaching the Starks, he felt the cold fingers of his wife tighten on his forearm, and he tensed as well, fearing that Brandon Stark would forget about their agreement, but all three brothers responded to his bow, only Lyanna pretended not to look his way at all.

Rhaegar sighed: contrary to her own words, she was angry with him, because by his behaviour he had compromised her. Well, perhaps he deserved all of it. Arthur’s condemnation, Lyanna's hurt, Cersei's cold silence and his father's praise. What's done is done, the damage had already been caused, now he needed to think how he can fix it.

No sooner had the Prince taken his seat beside the King than Aerys loudly demanded the musicians to start playing. It seemed to Rhaegar that his father had already drunk enough wine, and that was an ill omen. The musicians, striving to fulfil the royal wish as quickly as possible, struck a cheerful melody, and some of the guests, jumping up from their seats, began to dance, pulling other ones, less decisive, after them.

“The old custom has it,” Aerys shouted right into his son's ear, spilling saliva on him and splashing him with the sour smell of wine and rotten teeth, “that the winner of the tournament must dance with his chosen queen of love and beauty!”

The King's dark eyes glittered with triumph, and it was as if the fangs of a venomous snake were biting directly into lord Tywin, who sat far from the royal dais. Lannister was pale, but kept his face. Next to him, Rhaegar noticed the same man whose tongue his father had had cut out a few months ago. It was gratifying to know that Tywin had found a place for this person.

"Come on, son," Aerys laughed hoarsely, and the Prince could hardly contain the grimace.

Rhaegar got up and slowly, accompanied by the poorly concealed whispers, which seemed louder than the music, began to descend. Of course, he would not be allowed to just forget about what happened, he should not have even hoped. This is what occurs when you dismiss from your mind that you are the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms for a briefest moment, when you succumb to the feelings, when you think of something more important than the intrigues of petty lords.

The Prince went up to Lyanna and held out his hand to her, and she dutifully accepted it. From her face, stern and devoid of any colour, it seemed that she was not going to a dance with the Prince, but to the executioner’s block. Rhaegar took her hand gently, but did not feel the former warmth, Lyanna's lips were pursed, and her gaze was directed somewhere to the side. Following it, Rhaegar saw his wife dancing with Lucerys Velaryon. A soft sigh escaped the Prince's lips.

“Lady Lyanna,” he begged.

“Please, Your Highness,” she replied in a broken voice, “you've already said and done enough, let's finish this dance, and...”

Lyanna did not conclude the sentence and lowered her eyes, it seemed to Rhaegar that his heart sank somewhere deep down, and a vast hole of nothingness formed in its place.

“I was right,” the Prince said sadly, “you are still angry with me...”

“No,” Lyanna interrupted, “I'm angry not with you, but with myself. For not refusing the laurel, for being pleased with it...”

She suddenly fell silent, realizing that she had let out too much, but that was just enough for the Prince. He squeezed her hand tightly, not allowing himself to express the feelings that had overwhelmed him in any other way.

“Your Highness,” Lyanna Stark whispered, and Rhaegar realized she was barely holding back her tears. “Please don't. Leave me alone. So... you can't do that, that's... wrong. You must understand this yourself.”

“Lyanna,” the prince said in a barely audible murmur, calling her by her name for the first time.

She raised her eyes to him, grey, like a clouded sky. They shone brightly with unshed tears and looked at the Prince with a sense of doom. Lyanna bit her lip and shook her head desperately. Rhaegar wanted to tell her everything about the prophecy, about the prince that was promised, about ice and fire, but realized that it would not be the right time, and she, most likely, would not understand him and would consider him either a fool or a madman. Or maybe he was truly going crazy?

The dance ended too quickly, and Rhaegar was forced to return to his place, and Lyanna disappeared among the motley crowd, and he did not see her again that evening. Realizing the necessity for this, the Prince danced with his wife twice, both times they were silent, suffering from mutual alienation. Rhaegar did not leave his place anymore, not wishing to subject himself to this torture all over again, and Cersei disappeared somewhere. He was asked to sing, but the Prince refused politely, citing fatigue. Father was laughing at the top of his lungs. Apparently, King Aerys enjoyed humiliating others no less than his flaming executions.

Rhaegar sat only as long as etiquette demanded of him, and then went to bed, unnoticed by the attendants. When he was passing his wife's chambers, his eyes had caught the light under her door and he decided to explain himself. The Prince knocked softly and insistently. Elaine opened the door to him, and after making an awkward curtsy, she ran away.

“What do you need?” Cersei appeared on the threshold in a light silk robe and with her hair down. In her hands she held an elegant comb.

“I’ve come here to talk,” Rhaegar said dryly.

“I don’t know what you can tell me,” Cersei snorted. “Come in none the less.”

The Prince entered and remained standing perplexedly in the middle of the room, not having the slightest idea where to start. Cersei, continuing to grip the comb as if it were a sharp dagger, sat down in front of the mirror again, her back turned to Rhaegar, and now he could only see her face in reflection.

“Come on,” she said angrily, starting to comb her golden curls. “Talk or leave me. I will not let you humiliate me further...”

“Princess,” Rhaegar interrupted her, “let's face it: you and I live in a marriage that was imposed on us by our fathers, none of us wanted this, we do not love each other...”

“Speak for yourself, my prince,” the comb hit the floor with a crash, and Cersei jumped up to the Prince and stood in front of him, “this marriage was imposed on you, it’s you who didn't want it, you don't love me and never tried to love!”

“I…” Rhaegar was taken aback, expecting her to agree with him. “I tried, I swear by the Seven, I wanted to, but it's impossible... to force oneself into it...”

“I’ve realized that a long time ago,” Cersei said sadly, her sharp outburst of anger faded away, and her face faltered. “So, you came here to claim that you do not love me? Maybe you want to persuade me to agree to a mistress, but you should know that I will never grant you such permission. I am your wife, whether you like it or not, you have vowed before Gods and men to be faithful to me, to respect and protect me, and I have not done anything to disappoint you yet.”

“You’re right,” Rhaegar agreed resignedly, “I promise, nothing of the kind will ever happen again, but I can’t promise that I will ever be able to love you.”

“Why?” Cersei asked, her lips trembling with barely contained tears. “Why, Rhaegar? Why am I so bad? Am I so much worse than this Lyanna Stark of yours that you have never even called me by my name during our marriage?”

“She’s not mine,” the Prince snapped with more roughness than he truly wanted. “You’re no worse,” Rhaegar felt sincerely sorry for his wife, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. “You’re just not her. However, as you said, I remain your husband. I have not broken my vows, and I’m faithful to you. Neither you nor our daughter are in need of anything, and I have always acted in your best interests, you cannot deny that.”

“You tried to send me to Dragonstone,” Cersei objected.

“For your own good,” Rhaegar sighed.

“It’s the way you see it,” she folded her arms across her chest, “without me your father would have deprived you of your rights to the throne long ago already!”

Rhaegar was unusually surprised by this statement and could not find what to say for some time. How foolish it was of Cersei to believe she had any influence over the King. Foolish and dangerous! A person like Aerys is simply impossible to control, it is impossible to manipulate him, because no one really knows what is going on in his head.

“Oh gods, princess,” he exclaimed, “my father is insane! Today he is favourable to you, and tomorrow he will order to burn you at the stake. I beg you, if only for our daughter's sake, stay away from him.”

Cersei did not answer immediately, she was silent for a while and carefully examined her husband’s face.

“Soon you will have not only a daughter to care about, my prince,” a smile ran across her lips like a snake, “The gods blessed us with another child, and I am sure this time I can give the Seven Kingdoms an heir.”


	21. Ashara I

The grass was completely soaked from yesterday's downpour, and the ground under her graceful leather boots was squelching like a marshy forest swamp. It could have easily dragged one down into a true bog. Now the rain had stopped, but the water seemed to still hang in the air, causing her hair to curl in unruly ringlets and not allowing to breathe normally. Ashara Dayne looked with regret down to the wet hem of her almost new violet dress and the socks of her boots, which, soaked in water and mud, had turned from light brown to almost black. In the dry Dornish desert, such weather would have served as blessing, but here, in the riverlands, a girl accustomed to the sun yearned for its hot rays, and the sky always covered with grey clouds made her feel miserable. Well, she would have to get used to this and hope that spring, which everyone had been talking about so much lately, had really come.

“Lady Dayne!”

Ashara turned around and broke into a smile as she saw Eddard hurrying towards her. His brown hair, the same all the Starks had, was dishevelled by the wind, and water drops flew from under his heavy boots. It was obvious from his demeanour that Eddard was in a hurry. The poor man stumbled over a protruding tree root, almost fell, and blushed desperately from his own clumsiness. His habit of being embarrassed so quickly amused Ashara, but at the same time, she admired his honesty and sincerity: such qualities were rare among her circle of friends. Dorne was indeed full of snakes, and although its people often turned out to be quite nice upon closer examination, Eddard Stark's good nature and simplicity could not fail to attract her.

“Eddard,” Ashara extended her hand to him happily, and he immediately pressed it to his lips, “I think I’ve already told you to leave these formalities aside, at least when we are alone.”

“Excuse me,” Eddard smiled shyly, looking down at her, “I'm glad you’ve come here.”

If Eddard Stark tried to restrain his feelings, then, looking into his grey eyes, Ashara was able to see all the delight that he felt when meeting her. For some reason, Eddard’s glare, which was filled with happiness, thrilled her, and Ashara felt as if she were holding her own breath. A sharp gust of wind blew, and cold drops, frozen on the black tree branches, rushed down. Due to the sudden wind and pouring cold water all around her, Ashara screamed in surprise and darted into Eddard's saving arms. If it hadn't been for this little accident, Eddard would never have embraced her, although Ashara was sure he would really like to.

“How could I not,” she whispered, clinging to his quilted doublet as he wrapped his warm travel cloak around her shoulders. “I don't want to leave.”

“Me too,” Eddard said sadly. “Will you write to me?”

“Yes,” Ashara smiled, raising her sly violet eyes to meet his, “all the ravens of the Red Keep are not enough to deliver my letters.”

“Be careful,” Eddard's embrace grew tighter, and she smelled the damp fur that served as the trim of his cloak, “I don't like this idea with you travelling to King's Landing, times are not safe enough now.”

“It's not for long. The king has invited Arianne to stay, and Elia cannot leave the girl alone,” Ashara said with a sigh. She would have gladly returned to Starfall and her brother Admar and sister Allyria, but Elia asked to accompany her, and Ashara could not refuse her friend.

“And you can’t leave Elia?” Eddard exhaled. It was amazing how, during their short acquaintance, he had learned to understand her so well that she didn’t need to say anything.

“You’re right as always,” Ashara thought for a moment, not lowering her gaze and continuing to contemplate the worried face of her northman. “She is my friend, almost a sister, I have known her since childhood. Sometimes it seems that Elia is even closer to me than Allyria.”

“Why isn't her brother going with her?” young Stark insisted. His alertness scared Ashara a little. After all, what could be so frightening about King's Landing? The King, although nicknamed a madman, is unlikely to dare to harm her or Elia. Perhaps Eddard is jealous in advance of the sleek men at court? But this is the most utter nonsense, Ashara has met enough of these slippery snakes, and they never provoked anything in her except the desire to laugh at them.

“Oberyn can't stay in one place for long,” Ashara said. “It seems this time he is leaving for the Free Cities. Moreover, with his violent disposition, there is nothing to do for him at the royal court.”

“Yes,” Eddard drawled, “you can't play with fire at a place where the smallest spark can ignite a huge flame that will easily consume us all. I can’t sleep well knowing that Bran and Lya are there, and now you too...”

“We take our guards with us; we have someone to protect us. And Arthur will never let me be hurt,” Ashara stroked Eddard's cheek which felt slightly rough from the new stubble, “if it makes you feel calmer, I can look after your brother and sister.”

“If it's not hard for you,” he sounded embarrassed again.

“Why would it be hard?” Ashara was surprised. “I would love to make friends with both your siblings. You love them so much, and I would like to know them better.”

Eddard shrugged his shoulders in confusion, abashment reflected on his face, and then added rather shyly:

“Brandon and Elia... Nothing good will come of this. Bran is engaged to Catelyn Tully and must marry her or... otherwise it will be a disgrace to our house. I'm afraid he will break your friend's heart.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Ashara promised, she shared the feelings of young Stark deeply, “her heart is too fragile anyway.”

“Thank you,” Eddard squeezed her delicate hand again and, bringing it to his cold, pale lips, kissed each finger ever so gently.

“Don't thank me,” Ashara shook her head, smiling affectionately at him. Eddard's ardour mixed with his shyness made her feel unfeigned tenderness. “And where lies your path?” She asked after a short silence, when both were pressed tightly to each other, trying to keep the little warmth that the wind left them. “To the Vale?”

“No,” Eddard refuted her guesses, “I will go to Winterfell. I have a lot to talk to my father about. Robert Baratheon is asking for Lyanna's hand, and I would not like to entrust this topic to the ravens.”

“It seemed to me,” Ashara coughed meaningfully, “your sister’s interests lie in completely different direction. One can hardly tell that she likes lord Baratheon even in the slightest.”

“Her interests...” Eddard drawled, sighing heavily, “she should forget about them and fast. Robert is a good person, generous, kind, and sincerely in love with her. Lyanna will become the lady of Storm's End and will have a need for nothing.”

“Your friend seemed too rude to my liking, and he takes to the bottle unforgivably too often,” Ashara admitted honestly, upon closer examination Robert Baratheon did not give the impression of a desired husband for a young girl, “but you know him better than me to judge.”

“Let's us not discuss Robert,” Eddard smiled, biting his lip and, apparently, not wanting to ponder this topic further, “I will also ask my father for his blessing...” he hesitated and looked away for a moment, but then looked Ashara in the eyes again, “if you... if you, of course, do not mind... and want to become... my wife...”

Utterly embarrassed, the young wolf turned away and began to study the bizarre pattern on the bark of the large tree under which they both stood. Ashara lifted her hand and, running her thumb along the line of his lips, rose on tiptoe and kissed him. Eddard obviously did not expect this and was taken aback by the surprise that fettered him, however, having come to his senses a little, he responded to the kiss, tenderly and anxiously caressing the lips of his beloved.

“Did you truly think I would say no?” Ashara asked slyly, giving him a little break.

"Yes ..." Eddard muttered awkwardly. He looked like a boy who had tasted wine for the first time. “I mean, no. I’ve never doubted you, but... I am just a second son, I won’t have a castle of my own, no lands, I will be Brandon’s servant of sorts...”

“I promise,” Ashara put her finger to his lips, not allowing him to continue talking this nonsense, “we will think of something more exciting than hanging around your brother's person.”

Eddard looked at her in bewilderment, but did not ask anything. Instead he took her face in his large hands and kissed her, this time more assertively and persistently, claiming his rights upon Ashara and proclaiming her his. This kiss had a salty taste of unshed tears, a taste of bitterness from an upcoming parting and a taste of hope for a happy reunion in the future.

“Goodbye, Ashara,” Eddard said sadly, when he had to break the kiss at last, “I love you.”

“Goodbye, Eddard,” Ashara’s heart ached desperately, and it seemed to her that if she didn’t leave right away, she would definitely cry, “I’m glad that you went to that feast and invited me to dance with you.”

“I’m glad too,” he whispered, kissing her one last time. “More than about anything else.”

On her way back to the castle, Ashara caught herself thinking that the rain and dampness seemed no longer oppressing to her as much as they did only some moments ago. _The time will come, and I will have to live in a place where it snows even in summer_ , she pondered, and for some reason smiled at the thought, _truly, this disgusting dampness should not upset me so much._

The courtyard of the castle hummed like a disturbed bee hive. Servants carrying the possessions of their masters, horses snorting uncomfortably, disturbed by the turmoil, the ranks of the house guards dressed in the colours of their lords ‒ all this interfered with each other and absorbed anyone who had the courage to dive into the waves of the human sea. With difficulty Ashara made her way to the entrance and went to her chamber, all she had still to do was to change clothes, go down and sit in a creaky wooden wheelhouse, which was to take her to the capital after a few days of tiring journey.

In a long corridor, busy and bustling like Sisters Street in King's Landing, she stumbled upon Brandon Stark, who slipped quietly out of Elia's chambers. Ashara was sure that Brandon saw her, but preferred to pretend not to notice, and walked past without even turning his head in her direction. Elia’s face stuck out of the door behind him, and Ashara met her friend's gaze. The black eyes of Dornish Princess answered the silent reproach with a formidable challenge, and Ashara could only sigh helplessly: her friend was acting as if being insane, but no one could stop her. Apparently, the coming spring was too hot for the young hearts, for in the fire of awakening feelings, all sense was burned out without a trace.

The Dornish travelled together, but little Arianne's almost constant presence prevented Ashara from talking about what really bothered her, and forced her to chat about dresses, the weather in the capital and what awaited them at court. Ashara, unable to restrain herself, allowed a couple of transparent hints, but Elia continued stubbornly to talk about trifles and pretend not to notice anything. Fortunately for Ashara, the captain of the Martell house guard offered to give the little princess a ride on a horse, and Arianne, filled with happiness, ran away with him.

“You shouldn’t even try,” Elia smiled as soon as Arianne jumped out of the wheelhouse. Anticipating everything that her friend might tell, she tried to stop it with that remark of hers.

“At least listen to what I was about to say.” Ashara took Dornish Princess's hand.

“I already know that,” Elia rolled her eyes. “He is engaged to another, he is too air-headed, he’s going to fool you around, and you, poor Elia, will suffer. Oberyn spent the whole evening yesterday admonishing me, he even wanted to give up his journey and go with us, it took me a lot of effort to dissuade him. I had to promise that I would be a good girl. I don't want to deceive you either, but in return I hope that you will not try to interfere with me.”

“I can't promise that,” Ashara shook her head, “and I don't want to wipe tears from your cheeks later.”

“There will be no tears,” Elia snapped, “I’ve already come to terms with everything. I am not fit to be Brandon's wife; the heir to the North does not need a sick woman who cannot bear him a child. Let him marry his Catelyn, but I want to get my own piece of happiness, which will belong only to me.”

“Think about your health,” Ashara pleaded. “You don't need unnecessary anguish; in the capital we will have enough worries anyway.”

“Ashara, dear,” sadness crept into Elia's dark mysterious eyes again, “I am sick, and it is unlikely that I will live to see my hair become grey. No, don't try to object, I know what I'm talking about. Until the Stranger knocks at my door, I want to live the way I like. I want to love, I want to rejoice in a new day, I want to tremble before each new meeting with him! Even suffering is better than being covered in dust in the Water Gardens where my mother want to send me. May my heart break, but not turn to stone! If I do what you and Oberyn want from me, I will regret it bitterly.”

"I'm scared for you," Ashara said worriedly.

“Don’t be,” Elia replied softly, “I’m afraid no matter what you do, you will still outlive me, my dear. Deal with it, for you cannot change anything.”

Elia closed her eyes and turned away, Ashara fell silent and stared out of the narrow window, it was so small that almost nothing could be seen properly. Only a low grey sky, black tree trunks, dark brown road mud and reddish, wizened grass. Surely, Eddard sees the same things in front of him, but soon his own northern snows will take him into their arms. Let him soon speak to lord Rickard, let him soon write to her older brother. Ashara was sure that Admar would not refuse, and if he would be overwhelmed by doubts, then he would probably consult Arthur, and Arthur would certainly persuade him to grant her wish. All is required from her is to wait only a little bit.

They had spent the night at a small roadside inn. The royal party was so large that, of course, there was not enough space for everyone. Only the King himself was accomodated under the inn’s roof, as well as numerous ladies, while the rest of the men settled down outside in their tents. The poor hostess, frightened to death by the visit of the King himself and his retinue, did her best, thinking only of how to please everyone. The common room was already warmly heated, and after the guests had crowded it completely, it was not possible to breathe at all. After a full and pleasant meal, Ashara wanted to take a walk with her friend and freshen up, but Elia retired to her rooms. Arthur was also nowhere to be seen, he probably remained with one of the royal family, and Ashara had to go out alone.

The cool night air was biting her sensitive skin that was not used to cold weather, and Ashara wrapped the colourful shawl brought from home tighter around her. She recalled with a bit of sadness Eddard's warm cloak that he had used to warm her up tenderly this morning. Fires were burning in the distance, breaking the thick darkness with their bright flames, but here, close to the wooden walls of the inn, the grounds were empty. Only a small distance away there was a tiny figure, covered with a fur cloak and standing completely alone. In the darkness, it resembled a ghost from some horror story for little children, which chose to visit the place of its death after sunset. The figure turned around at the creak of the branches under Ashara's feet, and the dornishwoman recognized Lyanna Stark.

“Good evening, lady Ashara.” The girl's voice was hollow, but loud enough for Ashara to hear.

“Good evening,” the dornishwoman smiled broadly and went up to Lyanna, trying to look as carefree as possible. “It's nice being outside, is it not?”

“It is,” Lyanna replied distantly, as if she was still somewhere in her dreams. Ashara felt sorry for the girl. After the incident with the laurel, she had personally heard several times how Lyanna Stark was called Prince Rhaegar’s whore. Ashara did not participate in such conversations herself, but she was also interested whether there was some truth to these rumours. Eddard, of course, denied everything, but perhaps he was covering up for his sister, or maybe he simply did not know the whole truth. Perhaps marriage to lord Baratheon was just a way to hide the shame. Any girl can get carried away, and the handsome young Prince attracted women like the deadly fire lures silly moths. Ashara remembered that she herself was fascinated by him once.

“I envy your cloak,” Ashara continued, wanting to have a proper talk with her companion.

“Your shawl is much more beautiful,” Lyanna said, fiddling distractedly with the silver direwolf clasp.

“Maybe,” Ashara shrugged, “but there’s no warmth in it.”

“In the North, fur cloaks are necessary,” a shadow of a smile flickered on Lyanna's face, "sometimes it is so cold there that frost covers your hair and eyelashes, and they turn white. However, I have not seen anything more beautiful than the frosty pattern on the windows, the snow sparkling in the sun, the forests covered with a white blanket, where the sentinels grow so high that not every bird can fly over their tops.”

“You love your homeland,” Ashara said.

“Yes,” the conversation about home had awoken Lyanna a little, “and you will love it too, when… oh, I beg pardon.”

“I will love it,” Ashara assured the girl with ardour, not seeing the need to deny the obvious, “I have no doubt about it. But it will be hard for you to leave it forever.”

“Forever?” Lyanna was surprised, not understanding what it was all about.

“When you marry lord Baratheon, you will have to leave,” Ashara explained.

“Lord Baratheon?” Lyanna frowned in bewilderment, lightning flashed in her grey eyes. “Why...?”

“Ed… your brother lord Stark told me,” Ashara muttered, slowly realizing the obvious. “For Seven’s sake! You didn't know...”

Eddard will certainly be angry. Ashara could not imagine sweet Eddard being angry or fuming, but now, thanks to her careless chatter, she will have to witness it first-hand.

"Looks like Ned didn't bother to tell me about it," Lyanna sighed sadly. Her face darkened again; her eyes shone with inevitable doom. Lyanna turned away and stared at the distant lights, completely forgetting about her companion. Ashara realized that among the thoughts and musings of Lyanna Stark there was no longer a place for her utter nonsense and, suppressing the selfish desire to ask the girl not to say anything to her brother, she left. Lyanna did not even glance in her direction.

She should have kept her mouth shut. Perhaps she ruined everything, and Eddard will never forgive her now. Why would he have a wife who blabbers out all her husband's plans after having barely heard them? No, she still needed to ask Lyanna to keep quiet about this, it would, of course, be inconvenient and indecent, but peace with Eddard was worth it.

“Ashara!”

The girl was engrossed so deep in her thoughts that she could hardly refrain from screaming when Arthur grabbed her by the elbow, stepping out of the darkness.

“Oh, it's you, brother!” Ashara gasped, not having time to really get scared. “You shouldn’t sneak up so unexpectedly!”

“What's the matter with you, sister?” Arthur asked worriedly. “I could not get you look at me. Didn't you hear?”

“I didn’t,” Ashara brushed off as carelessly as possible, “My mind was just high in the clouds.”

“Not surprising,” Arthur smiled slyly. “Come down to earth for a while, I have one request for you.”

“Speak,” Ashara’s natural curiosity fluttered and raised its head. Judging by Arthur’s stern face, it was a serious matter.

“I can trust few people at court,” her brother began, “and I trust no one more than you. I know that you easily make friends with women and charm men effortlessly. I want to exploit your useful popularity to learn a thing or two.”

“What kind of things?” Ashara felt the approach of something extraordinarily exciting.

“It's very serious, Ashara. Promise me that you will not do anything on purpose,” Arthur insisted, “only if the right opportunity comes along. It can be dangerous, no one should guess that you are trying to figure something out.”

“Fine,” Ashara nodded obediently, “I promise. Tell me what's the matter!”

“I need to know who was the one to choose the flowers for the queen of love and beauty’s laurel at the tournament,” Arthur whispered, looking around fearfully. There was no one nearby, however.

“But couldn't lord Whent and the master of the tournament tell you that?” Ashara asked, puzzled. The matter seemed very simple to her.

“They both know nothing, and this is very alarming,” Arthur shook his head. “Each one points to the other, forcing me to walk in circles.”

“You think…?”

“Shh,” Arthur put his finger to his lips. “Let me not share my guesses with you yet. Remember one thing: if someone did it on purpose, nothing will stop him. Promise me you'll be careful.”

“I promise,” Ashara repeated, feeling his worry hanging in the air between them. It looked like that not everything was as calm in the Seven Kingdoms as it might have seemed from the outside.

“May the Seven keep you.”


	22. Brandon II

Brandon fumbled with the note in his hand and then threw it into the hearth, the fire licked a small piece of parchment predatorily and consumed it almost immediately, turning it into a handful of black ashes. Elia wrote that she would be waiting for him tonight. This news made Brandon a little happier, and he smiled wearily into his chestnut beard. The heir to the North did not know himself how it happened, but meetings with the Dornish princess were the best moments of the day for him, and otherwise his pastime would have been too dreary.

King's Landing continued to offer a wide variety of entertainment, but Brandon Stark's attraction to them had dimmed, even though he did occasionally go out for a drink with Albyn Snow. Brandon had never made any friends in the capital, and his sister no longer accompanied him. After the tournament, Lyanna had changed a lot, as if she became a shadow of her former self. Not a day had passed without nasty whispers, which reminded him of the hiss of a snake. The gossipers knew perfectly well that Brandon heard everything, but they did not take the trouble to shut up at least for the time when he was near.

Lyanna, of course, heard those whispers too. When they first returned to the capital, Brandon often noticed that his sister's eyes were darkening, like the sky before a storm, and flashing with lightning. He was afraid at the time that she would do something stupid. Lyanna, however, was silent, pursing her lips and proudly raising her head, but her already pale face became whiter than snow. So it was at first, and then his sister stopped paying attention to someone's words completely, as if they, like arrows, had missed their target and had flown past her ears.

Brandon believed that he would have to constantly guard Lyanna from the Prince, but his sister did not seek the man’s company. Sometimes Brandon noticed the long, piercing gazes of Prince Rhaegar, directed her way and left unanswered by his sister. Over time, part of her former vitality had returned to Lyanna, but she no longer went to observe the training of the knights, and appeared at court only when necessary. Lyanna spent almost all of her time with Queen Rhaella and went riding horses only occasionally with Albyn. Sometimes Brandon noticed his sister in the company of Elia and Ashara Dayne, the dornishwomen invited Lyanna for walks in the garden of the Red Keep or took her with them when they went to the city fair or to the seamstress for a new dress.

She behaved too restrained with her older brother, and Brandon could not help but feel the coldness emanating from her. Lyanna, apparently, could not have completely forgiven him for the scolding he made her endure back in Harrenhal. Brandon knew himself that he had gone too far, calling her the dragonspawn’s mistress, but what else could he think when Rhaegar Targaryen, having disregarded all possible propriety, had handed Lyanna this damned laurel? The Prince's apologies had cooled Brandon a little, but he did not believe at all that the heir to the throne was driven only by respect for his sister's bravery. Brandon's correctness was also proved by the Prince's long sad glances in the direction of Lyanna and her attempts to avoid him, which had probably come to her with great difficulty.

Brandon waited anxiously for news from Winterfell. He had little doubt that his father would consent to the marriage between Lyanna and Robert Baratheon. Such an alliance was beneficial to both houses, but now it was becoming vital for the Starks. Who knows if Lyanna will be able to hold herself together or will still fall into the arms of the Dragon Prince, dooming herself to shame and exile from decent society? To avoid such sad consequences, it was required to remove her promptly from the Prince’s company so that she could quickly forget about her stupid obsession. It only remained to get the permission of the King, and this seemed to be almost the most difficult task. No matter how much Brandon thought about it, he could not decide on a proper way to get the King to let Lyanna go. Why keep her here at all? Is one hostage not enough for them? Or, perhaps, Aerys had nothing to do with it, and it was Prince Rhaegar who did not want to let her go, hoping to get her favours back finally?

_Ugly snake_ , Brandon hissed to himself, clenching his fists. He got up from the chair in which he had sat by the hearth all morning and was able to stop only when his fingers gripped the cold door handle. It was stupid: a quarrel with the Prince under his own roof would lead only to the direst consequences, and then Lyanna would be left alone at the mercy of fierce dragons, ready to tear her apart. If Ned were here, he would have figured something out. His younger brother would not even think of rushing to the heir to the throne.

Brandon tried to calm down and pull himself together. It was still worth talking to Prince Rhaegar, appeal to his conscience, he still had it, as they said. If only Brandon could restrain myself. For the sake of his father, his brothers and sister, for Elia. The last thought surprised Brandon; how long had he been so strongly attached to his dornish girl? This was too much already. He must marry Catelyn Tully, and he must not bind himself with such tight bonds that he would later have to rip off together with his skin.

It was much easier to get himself a meeting with the Prince, than Brandon had expected. Rhaegar Targaryen received the heir of the North in his solar, having sent Oswell Went away right before that, as the knight intended to be present at the meeting.

“Ser Oswell thinks you want to murder me,” the Prince said dryly.

From his calm, indifferent look, it was impossible to guess whether he was joking or speaking quite seriously. Brandon had no idea how to respond to that line, so he continued to stand at the door, clenching his fists painfully and gazing coldly at Prince Rhaegar from under his thick dark eyebrows. _Perhaps ser Oswell was not so far from the truth_ , he thought angrily.

“Sit down, lord Stark,” the Prince pointed to an elegant armchair trimmed with black brocade. He sat at a large wooden table piled with books. A half-burnt candle stood next to Prince Rhaegar, and an open book lay before his eyes. Brandon, out of curiosity, glanced at the lines of neat and flat letters, but the Prince, as if he had caught a barely perceptible movement of his guest, closed the heavy volume immediately. It looked like there was some secret hiding there. After looking closely at Brandon, Prince Rhaegar continued, “I was joking about Ser Oswell, but my guards do consider you dangerous because of your tempestuous disposition. Dangerous for your own self, first of all.”

“You don't have to worry about me, Your Highness,” Brandon muttered with ill-concealed hostility.

“Well, I am glad of your confidence,” the Prince was on the contrary calm and deliberately polite, not noticing, it seemed, the rudeness of his guest, “how can I help you, lord Stark?”

“I'd like to talk to you about my sister,” Brandon blurted out too quickly.

He could not but notice how the Prince turned pale and how his lips tightened. Prince Rhaegar's musical fingers reached out to the quill lying on the table and played with it nervously. Brandon watched him warily. Unfortunately for the northman, he was convinced that Rhaegar Targaryen looked like anyone, but not an insidious seducer.

“Well,” the Prince said at last, “speak, I’m all ears.”

“Let her go,” Brandon said, trying to keep his composure.

Prince Rhaegar did not answer, he tilted his head in surprise and stared at Brandon, as if not fully understanding what he was talking about.

“Let her go, Your Highness,” oldest Stark repeated.

“It’s not in my power, my lord.” The Prince clutched his hands together in front of him and dropped his head on them, as if it had suddenly become heavy under the weight of the thoughts that were now plaguing Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Is it true?” Brandon asked too sharply. He glared at Prince Rhaegar with the eyes of a guard captain, who had caught a thief.

“Why would I deceive you, lord Stark?” The Prince said wearily. “Believe me, I wish for lady Lyanna to be safe as much as you do, but it was not by my will that you were summoned to the capital, and it is not my will that would release you from here.”

“Can't you talk to your father?” Brandon did not decide whether he should believe the Dragon Prince or not. Does the heir to the throne truly have no power at court?

“It will only make matters worse.” Prince Rhaegar shook his head. “You know very well yourself how mistrustful my father is, you know that he suspects your family of conspiracy against the crown. His faithful advisers are already pouring the sweet words into his ears, telling him that this miserable laurel is nothing more than a sign. A sign that I am united with you. You must understand yourself that as soon as I go to my father with your request, we all will be executed straight away.”

Brandon bowed his head, being somehow ashamed of his misgivings about the Prince. If Lyanna had not been involved in this whole story, perhaps he would have even felt sorry for Rhaegar Targaryen. There is a negligible amount freedom allowed to the future lord of Winterfell, and the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms has even less.

“Why did you speak only for your sister?” Prince Rhaegar asked unexpectedly. “Not for yourself?”

“The king still needs a prisoner,” Brandon shrugged. “No one would have let me go just like that.”

“Is this the only reason?” The Prince asked. “It seemed to me that you are not all eager to leave the capital, although a beautiful bride is waiting for you in Riverrun...”

“Do you condemn me?” Brandon snapped. It’s not for Rhaegar Targaryen to talk about decency and morality after everything that he had done.

“I understand you,” the Prince objected, “and I hope that you will understand me.”

“I would like to,” Brandon admitted, “but my sister’s honour is damaged.”

“Yes, you are right,” Prince Rhaegar suddenly faltered, “I regret this more than anything in the world. By the old and the new gods, I would like to fix it with all my heart.”

“You can't fix anything anymore,” Brandon objected, as soon as he remembered the evil whispers floating behind his back, his anger at the person guilty of these dastardly rumours boiled with renewed vigour, “but you still can do something so as not to further provoke the gossip.”

The heir of the North expected to hear an assurance or commitment, but the answer was silence, long and dangerous. Rhaegar Targaryen's face turned suddenly to stone, and Brandon knew that he would not receive any promise. In any case, now the oldest of the Stark pack could finally be sure that the Prince was honest with him, but this did not make it any easier. The Dragon Prince was foolish, his sister was headstrong, and Brandon himself could do nothing to prevent them from driving all the Seven Kingdoms insane.

“I’m sorry, lord Stark,” Prince Rhaegar’s voice sounded metallic, “that I was unable to help you.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Brandon offered. “I thought...”

“I know what you were thinking,” the Prince interrupted him. “You were wrong. Goodbye.”

Prince Rhaegar reached for his book to show that the conversation was over. Brandon rose with a heavy heart, taking one last look at the Prince. He liked Rhaegar Targaryen for his honesty and purposefulness, his craving for freedom and the ability to feel deeply. Perhaps in some other life they could have become friends, but now Brandon would prefer the Dragon Prince not to exist at all, or at least to never have crossed paths with his sister.

At the door, Brandon turned suddenly around and, contrary to his usual custom, said in a low voice:

“Your Highness, at Harrenhal you’d said you respected and admired my sister. I beg you, if Lyanna is really dear to you, do not endanger her life or put another shame on her honour.”

The Prince raised his head and looked at Brandon for a long time before answering.

“You have my word, lord Stark,” he said finally.

The door clicked softly behind him, and Brandon exhaled. The rage that burned within him when he came here had extinguished, he felt devastated and desperate. Here, in the very core of the dragons’ nest, he served as their prey, which they could swallow whenever they wanted, and this made Brandon want to howl at the moon. His own impotence oppressed him. Not only could the heir to the North never fulfil his father's order completely, showing himself to be a worthless intriguer, he also could not protect Lyanna.

It was getting dark outside the windows, and servants scurried along the corridors, lighting candles and torches. The flames threw shades on the walls and heat on the faces. Brandon, shivering, hastened to leave Maegor’s Holdfast. Now, when the day gave way to another disturbing night, the old fortress strongly resembled the person whose name it bore. Passing the drawbridge, Brandon gazed onto the blackness of the dry moat that separated the holdfast, where the royal family lived, from the rest of the keep. In the darkness, the moat resembled a quiet river, and only the light of a few torches burning on the bridge gleamed on the tips of the deadly peaks that dotted the bottom of the moat.

Having passed a small courtyard and ascended the stairs, which reminded him of a labyrinth, Brandon finally found himself inside the Maidenvault, where the guests of the court and the Queen’s and Princess’ ladies in waiting resided. This building, like many others within the Red Keep, had its own sad history. Brandon passed several corridors and stairs and, making sure that no one could see him, knocked on Elia Martell's door.

“It's me,” he whispered, hearing her footsteps behind the wooden barricade.

The door creaked softly, and Brandon squeezed in with difficulty.

“I keep forgetting that you are not a little mouse, but a big grey wolf,” Elia cooed, wrapping her graceful thin arms around Brandon's neck.

Brandon closed her thin and bony face in his hands and kissed her eagerly on the lips.

“And a very hungry wolf too,” he growled in her ear, making Elia laugh loudly.

“It definitely needs to be fixed,” she sing-songed and smiled slyly.

Elia's hands were soft and her lips were tender, a spicy and at the same time sweet scent of gooseberries emanated from her, Brandon had immediately drowned in it, forgetting about everything that remained outside in the big world, beyond the threshold, bypassing which Brandon seemed to have fallen into his dream. Elia was small and tiny and looked fragile; however, her personality was the complete opposite of her appearance. Brandon remembered Ned having said back in Harrenhal that her dark eyes seemed sad to him, but Brandon did not see sadness in these magnificent orbs. As soon as he looked into her black pools, which reminded him of deep forest lakes, they started to laugh and shine with such tenderness as the older Stark had never seen before. And if Elia put something in her head, she became unimaginably stubborn, and Brandon knew that for the opportunity to see her, talk to her, kiss her, he should thank her independence and unbending will.

“You seem tired,” she whispered, burying her nose in his neck.

“Perhaps I am,” Brandon embraced her. In his strong and muscular arms, she seemed even smaller and more graceful. The crimson glow of the hearth played on her olive skin, making Elia look less sickly.

“You won't tell me anything?” The Dornish princess pouted like all women sometimes do and stroked his shoulder.

Brandon closed his eyes wearily. He didn’t want to let the demons that were waiting for him outside the door into that quiet world that he shared only with Elia. He didn't want to turn a beautiful dream into a frightening reality. Anyway, soon he will be woken up and taken to the sept, where he will swear before the gods to love and protect Catelyn Tully.

“I don’t want to tire you,” Brandon replied.

“It's because of your sister, isn’t it?” Elia insisted. She could not be denied good guesswork.

“Yes,” he breathed heavily, kissing her dark-haired crown.

“You remind me of my brother,” Elia smiled a little sadly. Brandon knew that deep down she yearned for Oberyn Martell to travel to King’s Landing with her. “If he was here, he probably would have been pondering which poison to use to send you to all seven hells at once.”

Brandon looked at her in surprise, and Elia only blinked innocently in response. The shadows that the candles cast on her face made the dornishwoman’s long eyelashes look like black butterflies. This was what she reminded Brandon of: a butterfly, a light and fragile beauty, who was to live for only a few days. Flying towards the sun, she could soar very high, but this would only take all the strength she possessed.

“I don’t understand, are you serious or are you laughing at me?” Brandon asked, trying to smile.

“Both,” Elia shrugged her narrow, pointed shoulders, “Oberyn, of course, would have intended to kill you, but I would have dissuaded him.”

Brandon chuckled. He understood why Elia started this conversation, but he did not want to continue it. In Dorne, morals are freer, and blood is hotter, no one will condemn a Dornish princess for one single lover, no one will consider her vicious, no one will close the doors of their houses for her. Elia will return home and will continue to live as if nothing had happened, and after such a fall, the northern woman's path is only to stay with her family, shamed and forgotten. The North is harsh, like its old gods, who protect their children, but do not forgive sin.

Lost in thought, Brandon did not notice that Elia had fallen silent. Her gaze faded, and her eyes, like two black agates, stared blankly into the hearth. The heir to the North knew that she was angry with him for his silence, but he did not want to speak. Brandon put his arm around her shoulders, bent down and kissed her. Wolf blood boiled in him, bursting out with unbridled passion that threatened to crush a small fragile butterfly. Elia, however, withstood his pressure every time, becoming infected with his fury, melting the age-old ice, burning Brandon like the sun depicted on her house’s sigil, and reviving him from the ashes all over again.

If only maester Walys had not persuaded lord Ricard to betroth his oldest son to the Tully maiden, if lord Arryn had not grasped the idea, as extremely wise, everything could have still be changed. But one cannot turn back the past, and one cannot change what he had done. Elia Martell will forever remain not more than a dream for him, which the gods allowed him to touch only with his fingertips. His sister was denied even this comforting small happiness, and it was just left for Lyanna to yearn for something that was never to happen.

Whether it was Elia's influence, pity for Prince Rhaegar, or his own reflections of the past few days, Brandon thought that he should try and improve relations with his sister. Everything was probably tough for her now, and he was her only close person here with whom she could share her sadness.

He found Lyanna one morning in the stables of the Red Keep. The weather that day was cloudy, but dry, and his sister took the opportunity to venture for a ride. Next to her, faithful Albyn Snow was shifting from foot to foot, and they were talking quietly about something, waiting while the horses were saddled for them. Brandon watched them a little from the side, and then, nevertheless, approached.

“Lya,” he called.

Lyanna turned around, tossing strands of her brown hair back with her hand. The emerging of her brother was probably a surprise for her, but she did not betray her astonishment in any way.

“Hello, Brandon,” she said, putting all the cold of the North into her words.

She was still angry, Brandon realized. His sister was surprisingly stubborn, and if she was really offended, then it was not easy to return her good favour.

“Look, Lya,” the Stark heir chuckled, “look, even the weather has warmed up. Perhaps you should do so as well.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Brandon regretted not managing to keep his temper right away. Lyanna pursed her lips and gave her brother such a look that could have been compared only with the one of the Others from old Nan's tales, after that she turned away. If they were alone, Brandon was ready to bet she would have answered him properly.

“Fine, fine,” the older Stark raised his hands in a protective gesture, “I came to you in peace.”

“It doesn't look like it,” Lyanna snorted.

“You'll have to take my word for it,” Brandon tried to smile, but did not see the responsive smile on his sister's face. “Albyn, will you not be offended if I substitute you as my dear sister’s riding companion? Will you allow me, Lya?”

“If I wanted to go riding with you, I would have certainly asked,” Lyanna folded her arms across her chest. “Albyn, you stay.”

Brandon chuckled to himself. Better to let his sister huff and puff like that than have her gazing at him with eyes red from tears with the look of a wolf tortured by hunters.

“Please, Lya,” Brandon receded, rightfully deciding that it was best to ask politely now.

Lyanna hesitated for a while, but finally nodded in the affirmative. Albyn, shrugging his shoulders absentmindedly, withdrew, and the Starks, having mounted their horses, rode out of the Red Keep and headed towards the forest. Lyanna sent Dayflower into gallop almost at once, and at first Brandon did nothing but chase her through the surrounding fields. Finally, his sister took mercy on him and slowed her horse to a step, allowing him to ride beside her. Her slightly snub nose was upturned defiantly, and Brandon knew she had no intention of helping him.

“It’s time to stop being angry, sister,” he said half-ironically, hoping to tune his sister into a kind tone.

“Oh, really?” Lyanna raised an eyebrow. “At first you insult me, call me a prince's whore, and then you and Ned, without even bothering to tell me, arrange my marriage to Robert Baratheon. I have always assumed you were on my side. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“How do you know about Robert?” Brandon asked warily, a little taken aback. “Nothing has been decided yet, father has not given consent.”

“It doesn't matter,” Lyanna replied, “I know everything. Father will certainly agree, but that doesn't matter. You could have talked to me first, I am a human being, not a rare flower that can be sold for a high price to a rich southerner.”

“It's not about the coin, Lya,” Brandon said. “I didn't call you a whore, but...”

“You didn't utter the word, but that's what you meant,” Lyanna interrupted.

“I’m sorry,” Brandon almost choked on the word. The need to apologize to a woman who, according to the laws of gods and men, had to obey her brothers and father, and later her husband, humiliated his pride. With his sister, however, there was no other way, and for this Brandon had respected her deep inside his heart. “You must understand that we are acting in your best interest. Do you think someone’s ever asked me if I wanted to marry the Tully girl? Father’s and lord Arryn's ambitions were above my desires, that's all. As for you, if it were not for the silliness of your prince, there would be no such haste with your marriage...”

“He’s not mine,” Lyanna said quietly, and her lips quivered, “and I understand everything, I understand it all too well. But what can I do with my heart?” She looked pleadingly at her brother, as if expecting that he would give her some kind of advice.

“Turn it to stone, Lya,” Brandon said angrily, “that's what I think. I intend to do just that with mine, there is no other choice left for me or for you... Except to run away across the Narrow Sea. We could join some traveling show and perform silly tricks.”

“That would be the best way,” Lyanna sighed dreamily, “but we can't do that to father, can we?”

"We can’t," Brandon nodded resignedly.

“You can do whatever you want with me, but I will not marry lord Baratheon. I don’t want to turn to stone, Bran,” Lyanna’s voice was fearful, “I don’t want to and I will not. I am alive, I breathe and I feel, so I will remain. Nothing and no one will dare to subdue me, if it is not by my own will.”

She kicked Dayflower’s sides and rushed towards the forest, heavy clouds scattered over the tops of age-old fir trees, revealing a piece of blue sky and offering some hope for a sunny day.


	23. Lyanna V

The dark grey stones used for the layout of the ornate paths at the keep’s garden had become wet with morning dew and therefore slippery. Lyanna stepped cautiously, afraid to slip and stretch out on hard surface. It was early morning, the sky overhead had turned pale blue, and in the east, its edge was already gilded by the rays of the rising sun. Lyanna loved this time of day because the Red Keep was still in a deep slumber. The only ones awake were the sleepy guards who had spent that night on duty and were already dreaming of a rigid soldier's bed, and the servants, who had gotten up in the dark and gone to work with might and main. However, the girl was not bothered by the occasional gardeners on her way or a couple of half-sleeping sentries. They did not interfere with her, and did not pay attention to her at all, busy with their own affairs.

Now, when the trees were bare, and only a few evergreen firtrees and pines of a small size were offering some colour to the whole garden, the gardeners had little to do, but not far from now, as soon as spring took over, work in the garden would boil with renewed vigour. One would need to plant flowers, cut away the dry branches from numerous bushes, and tidy lawns. Lyanna was looking forward to the moment when the trees, now asleep for the winter, would be covered with the first tiny buds and the first spring flowers would bloom. Surely then it would not be so dull here, and the garden would sparkle with new colours that would erase the present greyness.

Between the black branches of the nearest tree, a spider had weaved itself a web. Dew drops had frozen on it like small diamonds, and Lyanna admired involuntarily this dangerous beauty created by nature itself. Looking at the shiny drops and skilfully woven cobwebs, which, for some reason, led her to think about her own fate, Lyanna, despite her carefulness, stepped unsuccessfully on the moisture-soaked moss covering the old stones, her foot slid forward, and Lyanna would certainly fall to the ground, if someone’s hands did not support her.

“You should be more careful, my lady,” her saviour said with a grin, making sure she stood firmly on her two feet.

“Ser Jaime,” Lyanna was surprised to see this Lannister here. He stood a little behind her, and, looking very pleased with himself, stared at her with his emerald eyes, exactly the same as those of his sister.

“Good morning, my lady,” ser Jaime bowed politely.

Lyanna shuddered, realizing that she was looking at him too intently, and that was probably why she seemed so strange to him.

“Thank you, ser,” she said at last, “you saved my dress from being covered in dirt and me from getting a few bruises.”

“It wasn't a difficult job,” Lannister smiled, “I didn't even have to leave my path, and it was a joy to serve as a knight at last.”

The young kingsguard and his sister were like two peas in a pod. The same golden hair, delicate pinkish skin with a healthy blush, an even nose and a strong-willed, but not rough, chin. It seemed that he was even too handsome to truly enter into a fight, his face was not made for the scars, smashed eyebrows and split lips that would surely find him if Jaime had to participate in a real battle. However, the young Lannister's gaze, while overly self-confident, did not show the superiority over everyone else that was characteristic of Princess Cersei. Jaime admired himself rather sincerely, which did not prevent him from being kind to others.

“I thought you had a great opportunity to be a knight every day,” Lyanna objected, “many worthy young men dream to take your place.”

“Once I dreamed about it too,” ser Jaime grinned, “but here my days seem even more boring to me than back at home at the Rock. Accompanying members of the royal family everywhere is not an appealing occupation, believe me.”

“I can imagine,” Lyanna agreed, “although His Grace does not seem a boring kind of man to me.”

Ser Jaime burst out laughing and covered his mouth with his hand so as not to giggle uncontrollably. Now, he somehow reminded Lyanna of her brother Benjen, and she wondered how someone who was so alike Princess Cersei could be so different from her at the same time.

During those few weeks that had passed since their return from Harrenhal, Lyanna had tried her best to avoid the Princess's company. She was embarrassed and scared at the same time, for on several occasions that Lyanna Stark and Cersei Lannister did meet at Queen Rhaella's dinners, it seemed to Lyanna that the Princess's eyes were pouring out wild fire on her, ready to roast the northern woman she hated so much. As for ser Jaime, he seemed very amiable, unless, of course, this was not another game of his sister’s, and the knight’s goal lay in getting something from the Queen’s lady in waiting.

“In short,” Lannister continued, “I imagined knighthood a little differently. However, I confess that I do not see myself in any other role.”

“Well, you do not want to become an important lord, like your father, do you?” Lyanna asked mockingly.

“Ugh...” Jaime winced, “this is not for me. I would be totally useless as a lord; I am much better at being His Grace’s tail.”

“And I should confess that I, too, would rather go tail after His Grace than become a lady of some castle,” Lyanna smiled.

She kept silent about the ugly truth that her brothers had already decided upon lady of which particular castle she was to become, and the raven was probably already on its way from Winterfell to Storm's End, carrying her father's consent to Robert Baratheon. Lyanna had never been to the ancestral castle of the storm lords, but for some reason she imagined it being gloomy and cold, like a dungeon where she was to become a prisoner.

She saw herself wandering through its dark corridors, like a ghost, heard the heavy footsteps of lord Robert at her bedroom door and shrank into a ball of fear, even realizing that this was just the play of her too vivid imagination. At the end, she usually threw herself from a high cliff right into the raging waves, and some singer composed a sad song about her. Often this singer was Rhaegar Targaryen, who, instead of writing a ballad mourning her untimely death, would appear in Storm's End long before she had the chance to end her life, defeat Lord Robert in a single combat, and take Lyanna away with him. As soon as she allowed herself to think about it, Lyanna started to bit her lip painfully and clenched her fists so that her nails dug into her palms, but the sweet vision still returned and tormented her heart.

“This is because there is no good enough lord in whose castle you would like to settle,” Jaime Lannister said fairly.

“Perhaps,” Lyanna answered evasively, fearing to give herself away. Although she liked the young knight positively, it was still Princess Cersei's brother, it could be that he would go and tell her everything that Lyanna had said here. In the Red Keep, one must never forget about caution. “Perhaps I can say the same about you.”

“You’ve caught me,” Jaime chuckled, but there was too much bitterness in that grin, “can you imagine my father wanted to marry me off to Lysa Tully?”

Lyanna would have liked to answer that it was not a sin to leave such a bride to the Night's Watch, not only to the Kingsguard, but she felt that it was indecent to speak badly about family friends, so she answered rather restrainedly:

“I don't think lady Lysa would have suited you.”

"I quite agree with you," ser Jaime nodded. From his face, which suddenly lost its happy expression, Lyanna realized that it was not only about Lysa Tully, and ser Jaime was overtaken by very unpleasant thoughts, “thank you for the conversation, my lady, but the night at the royal chambers tired me a little, I will go.”

“Forgive me for keeping you for so long, but I’ve enjoyed our talk,” Lyanna held out her hand to him.

“Me too,” Ser Jaime imprinted a dry, meaningless kiss on the back of her hand and headed towards the White Sword Tower.

While they were talking, the warm morning sun had crawled from behind the horizon, and the Red Keep started to wake up at last. Lyanna hastened to leave the garden and went to her chamber, in order to be gone until the ladies of the court would fill the now empty paths for their morning promenade. After her return from the tourney, Lyanna preferred either to leave the keep, going as far away from it as possible, or to take her walks at a time when there was no one around. The ladies of the court, who had barely noticed her before and laughed at her boyish manner, now sought to chat with her and draw her each into their circle. Still, the supposed mistress of the Dragon Prince had suddenly become interesting, and everyone wanted to know what she was.

Lyanna answered them with true northern coldness, and soon they left her alone, bothering the Stark girl only with their vile gossip. Just Elia Martell and Ashara Dayne had shown true affection for her, they had not asked or condemned anything. Lyanna was glad that Ashara would become her good sister and secretly admired Elia's courage, which she herself did not have the heart to pursue. Lyanna sometimes thought that it would be better if she truly fell into the arms of Prince Rhaegar, then she would be at least a little happy. And now she just endured many difficulties, without having any consolation.

It was hard for her to avoid Rhaegar when every moment in his company hurt her in such a sweet way that the girl enjoyed it like the best of wine mixed with poison. Lyanna dreamed of looking into his indigo eyes, but as soon as he gave her a pleading, hopeful gaze, she forced herself to turn away at once. Lyanna had to stay cold, and then, perhaps, the Prince would forget about his passion, however, deep down she hoped that he would only desire her even more with every moment.

Now, when a feeling hitherto unknown to Lyanna had completely absorbed her, forcing her to wallow in it, like drowning in the raging sea, the girl desperately needed at least something to grab onto. She longed for a good advice, but there was no one to ask for it. She could not talk to Brandon, as Lyanna was embarrassed to discuss such things with him. Her brother would only be angry, and she did not want to run into another quarrel. The dornish might have understood her best, perhaps, but Lyanna was not that close to them. Often the girl remembered her mother, whose face she could hardly imagine. Over the years that had passed since lady Lyarra’s untimely death, the lady of Winterfell had turned into a magical legend, and Lyanna could not tell herself whether she had kept the real image of her mother in her mind, or a phantom based on the numerous stories of her father. It was a pity that Lyarra Stark had died so early, because now her almost grown-up daughter longed for her counsel greatly.

From her mother, who was long gone, Lyanna's thoughts had involuntarily floated to Queen Rhaella, who remained invariably kind to her unlucky lady in waiting. However, the girl could not imagine how it would be possible to consult with the Queen herself about this, besides Rhaella was always under the strict eye of her septas all day, they both not only provoked the mixture of disgust and fear in Lyanna, but also spied for the King, as some said.

The Queen and her lady in waiting had only once touched the Harrenhal tournament in their conversation. This happened almost right after Lyanna's return to King's Landing. Her Grace, contrary to her usual custom, did not ask Lyanna to stay and read to her, but sent the lady in waiting on her way. The girl was sure that Queen Rhaella was also angry at her and condemned her for what had happened.

“Your Grace,” Lyanna said timidly, pausing a little and waiting for the others to leave, “have I somehow caused your displeasure?”

“Don’t say that, sweet child,” Rhaella smiled softly and held out her hand to the girl. “Why has such nonsense ever come to your young head?”

“Because of the laurel,” Lyanna explained shortly, bowing her head and fearing to look the Queen in the face.

“You have nothing to blame yourself for, Lyanna Stark,” Rhaella said sternly. “My son should regret what he had done, and I’ve already told him that, but you bear no fault.”

“Your Grace, I…” Lyanna wanted to argue, but the Queen interrupted her.

“Forget about it, child,” Rhaella's eyes were tired and doomed, her small thin hands were pressed to her belly that had begun to grow round, “people will have their piece of gossip and then stop, and now you shouldn't pay attention to it at all, believe me.”

“Let it be as you say,” Lyanna nodded, “I'm sorry to have distracted you.”

“It's fine,” the Queen said quietly, “when you were gone, I missed those evenings when you used to read to me, but today I’m too tired and would like to retire early.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna made a curtsy, “good night, my queen.”

She would have wanted to forget about everything that had occurred to her, as Queen Rhaella had advised, but she did not have the strength to do so. Lyanna regretted what had happened, but at the same time she could not tear from her heart the insane delight that among many other more refined and beautiful ladies he chose her and, moreover, did it in the presence of all the noble lords and the King himself. Having told Prince Rhaegar that she was pleased, Lyanna did not lie an inch. Such joy seemed evil and vicious, and after having trained with her wooden sword in the godswood, Lyanna prayed for a long time at the old oak, which served as a heart-tree here, asking the old gods to wrest the killing passion from her soul, like a festering splinter.

Was Prince Rhaegar asking the same of the Seven, or was he longing for something else? Did he regret what he had done? The Prince was not looking for a meeting with her, and Lyanna wondered if it was because she no longer interested him, or because he respected her request and decided to leave her alone. These agonizing questions broke Lyanna's heart and often kept her awake at night like a dull toothache. The girl made completely different assumptions, convincing herself of the one thing and then of another, but she understood pretty well that only Prince Rhaegar himself could give her the right answer.

Lyanna did not understand when the decision to speak to him had finally formed in her mind and she did not know what she was going to tell him. It was impossible for them to meet privately within the walls of the Red Keep, too many stranger ears and keen eyes were all around, and having seen them together in public, the court attendants would gossip even more. Lyanna had no idea how to let him know about her wish or how to arrange an eye-to-eye meeting with him. Should she send a note? But who would take it to the Prince? After all, there was no person in her acquaintance, whom the girl could trust enough with such a task. Lyanna slabbered the thought for a few more days, like the sweet candy made from melted sugar, which the cook had often given her back in Winterfell, when she was little, but she never dared to come up with any decision. She rushed about powerlessly between finally doing something and not doing anything at all. In the end, tired of the pressure that tormented her, she turned to the gods of her family, since she could not count on human advice.

Laying her wooden sword down on the withered grass of the capital’s godswood, Lyanna touched gently the almost white trunk of the oak, which now could remind her of the one of the real weirwood. The wind blew from nowhere, and the fallen leaves rustled, as if they wanted to whisper something. Lyanna was frightened and was about to jerk her hand away, but then she again touched the hard, rough bark, streaked with cracks, like the skin of an ancient old man with deep wrinkles. Lyanna did not take her hand away anymore; she stroked the oak hesitantly and closed her eyes.

 _Help me, the old gods_ , the girl thought, addressing the heart-tree. _Don't leave me alone, for I am wandering in darkness. Show me the way, for I am lost. I know, I ended up so far from the North, other gods rule around here, and you do not have enough power, but I beg you, hear my call, give me a sign of what to do and which path to choose._

The leaves rustled again, Lyanna opened her eyes and, raising her head, looked up into the thick black branches, through which the dark sky could be seen. If the gods answered her, the girl did not understand them. The trunk of the oak without a face on it looked empty and lost, not like the smiling weirwood from her shield that Prince Rhaegar had taken with him. The sadness of the old oak was hopeless and deep, as if it was grieving about all the troubles that befell these lands in the past, and those that are still to come in the future. Lyanna remembered her little friend Howland Reed. If he were here, he would have helped her, he would have interpreted the words of the old gods.

On her way to King's Landing, lord Reed had told her that she was to meet her destiny. Perhaps her destiny is Rhaegar Targaryen? It was a pity that lord of Greywater Watch did not share with Lyanna what he had seen in his dreams. He gave her the opportunity to find her own path, not wanting to sell her into the slavery of vague predictions, but instead he turned her into a slave of a choice she could not make.

It was already dark around the city, and Lyanna hurried back to the Maidenvault. She did not want to be missed, as Brandon was watching her too closely, fearing that she was secretly seeing the Prince. Lyanna had to cross the two keep’s courtyards, but both of them were already almost forlorn: it was getting damp and cold outside, and the local dwellers went closer to their hearths, which gave light and long-awaited warmth. Lyanna looked around, secretly still expecting some message from the old gods, but the whole place was still empty and quiet.

Having returned to her chamber, Lyanna did not find anyone except septa Jenna and Daisy, who both were looking for her and complained that she had not warned anyone again and went for a walk alone. Albyn jumped out of nowhere, dressed in a warm cloak and ready to go and search for the missing Stark girl. Brandon was nowhere to be found, apparently, he was with Elia Martell. Lyanna hardly even had to lie, as she explained to everyone that she had prayed in the godswood and, without revealing anything more, asked to be left alone. Having undressed with Lotha’s help, she threw herself on the bed and fell fast asleep. That night was peacefully dreamless.

The days dragged on, but no stroke of insight came upon Lyanna. At first, she looked for the message from the gods in every word addressed to her, but then she became less and less attentive and finally decided that the gods of her ancestors had abandoned her. Either they truly had no power in the south, or they left her to choose her own path. And she, tired of being tormented by uncertainty, had chosen.

“Lyanna Stark!” Oswell Whent's mocking voice stopped her on her way to Maegor's Holdfast.

"Ser Oswell, ser Arthur." Lyanna smiled at Whent and then Dayne, who was standing next to him. Ser Oswell answered her with a wide, ingenuous grin, while ser Arthur only nodded with restraint.

“We’ve missed you,” Oswell Whent tilted his head to one side and winked at Lyanna, “have we not, Arthur?”

“Absolutely.” Dayne didn’t know what to say right away, and his words sounded uncertain.

“Thank you, dear sers,” Lyanna replied politely.

“It’s a pity you don’t come to see us anymore,” ser Oswell's voice was filled with sincere regret, “are you no longer interested in a good sword fight? I remember, that in order to win your favour, I promised to defeat this glorious knight,” he nodded at Dayne, “and I continue to train hard. You must be wary of me, Arthur!”

Dayne paused, scowling at ser Oswell. Could it be possible that Whent truly did not understand the reason why she had stopped showing up in the training yard? But if he understood, then why ask?

“I’m busy with the queen,” Lyanna replied evasively, “and the weather has been fine lately, and I prefer to spend my free time walking.”

"Well, that's very commendable," ser Oswell nodded. It seemed that he caught her mood and quieted down a little. “Please forgive me if I allowed myself to speak too much.”

“I am always glad to see you, dear ser Oswell, and you, ser Arthur, too.” Lyanna turned her gaze to Dayne. A memory flashed in her mind like lightning, and a completely insane thought knocked on her head like a raven. If only she could think fast of how to express it, before the conversation was over, and after that ‒ come what may!

“I thank you,” Dayne replied.

“Same here”, Whent assured her, “you can still sometimes drop in on us when...” he broke off and fell silent for a moment, but then continued in the same joyful tone: “You cannot just entertain the queen and walk all the time. I'm afraid this will get you bored.”

“Oh,” Lyanna exclaimed too false for her own taste, “I have many other things to do! I read and try to explore the capital as best as I can. For example, today I intend to listen to a singer whom I’ve heard before in a tavern a few blocks away from the harbour and the market-place. They say it's impossible to predict when he will be there next time, but I hope that I will be lucky, because his songs have sunk deep into my heart.”

Lyanna turned to Dayne and looked intently into his face, though in ser Arthur’s dark purple eyes she could read nothing but the usual politeness with which he always addressed her. _Only ser Arthur knows my secret_ , Prince Rhaegar had told her back then at Harrenhal courtyard. But did Arthur Dayne understand her intention, and if he did, would he pass her words on to his royal friend? Oswell Whent cleared his throat pointedly, looking from Lyanna to his brother in arms. The girl perked up and turned away from Dayne, who was still silent.

“Pardon me, good sers,” Lyanna forced a smile, “Her Grace is expecting me, and I would not like to be late for the queen.”

“I hope we'll see you again soon, my lady.” Oswell Whent made a gallant bow to her. “Goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” Arthur Dayne said, leaving the hidden question unanswered.

Despite knowing that ser Arthur did not promise her anything, Lyanna decided to visit the tavern anyway. Claiming a headache, she went to bed early, without even having her dinner. She hid an inconspicuous dress of grey wool and a cloak under the bed. Lotha brought her some herbal tea, and then, having quietly asked the old gods to restore her mistress’s health, she withdrew. Lyanna lay still for some time with her eyes wide open. She was not afraid of falling asleep, the excitement had bound her body with such force that there was no even thinking of sleeping.

Why did she decide to do this? What will she say to the Prince? There were too many questions that Lyanna couldn't answer. There was no turning back, however. If ser Arthur had nevertheless conveyed her request to Rhaegar, and she did not appear, the Prince would think that she laughed at him. Lyanna could not even consider offending and humiliating him in such a way. Having gained some courage, she got out of bed and hastily dressed. Lyanna’s hair was braided in a simple manner just to keep it out of her eyes.

The door creaked treacherously as it opened, and it seemed to Lyanna that the sound had spread throughout the entire Red Keep. The girl stuck her head out into the corridor carefully, but it remained still empty and quiet. Lyanna listened to the silence, trying to catch any dangerous sound, but the utter stillness of the night reigned all around. The girl closed the door with a click and hurried to the exit. Her own steps seemed unforgivably loud to her, and Lyanna kept looking back, checking if anyone was following her, but she was still alone.

Lyanna passed a long corridor and went down the steep stairs. Two Targaryen guards loomed at the exit, and Lyanna, having barely spotted them, drew back. She clutched at the cold stone wall, catching her breath and thinking convulsively how she could get past them without showing her face. Lyanna did not have time to come up with anything, because someone's hand clamped her mouth, and the other, tugging at her elbow, pulled her somewhere to the side. The girl was taken by surprise and did not even have time to cry out, but her instincts did not fail her, and she fiercely plunged her teeth into the kidnapper's palm.

Lyanna heard someone cursing quietly and spun around.

“The prince forgot to warn me that the mission he’s entrusted me with would be so dangerous,” Oswell Whent's sly eyes gazed at her from the gloom.

“Ser Oswell?” Lyanna exclaimed, admiration and surprise mingled in her voice.

“Hush,” Whent pressed a finger to his lips, urging Lyanna to be careful. “You don't need to be seen by the royal house guards.”

“I was sure you didn't know anything about…” she whispered, sighing with relief.

“And you were right,” ser Oswell smiled disarmingly, “but our good and noble friend Arthur Dayne refused to leave the prince’s side, and the prince could not allow you to wander the streets of King's Landing alone, so they had to confide in me... Come on, my lady!”

Of course! She could have foreseen, that Rhaegar would never let her walk unguarded around the city at night. Lyanna remembered how back in Harrenhal the Prince had sent Benjen to the godswood, and smiled to herself.

Oswell Went picked the lantern from the ground and walked quickly forward, glancing back at Lyanna occasionally to make sure she was not lagging behind. They turned into a narrow stone corridor, then another and another, until they came upon a small wooden door, which was so low that ser Oswell had to double up to enter it, and Lyanna only slightly lowered her head. The door led them out into the dark castle courtyard.

“Throw on the hood,” Whent warned, doing the same himself.

Lyanna obeyed in silence, barely keeping pace with ser Oswell's large strides. They crossed the courtyard, passed the armoury, and dived into another long corridor. If not for the lantern in Whent's hands, nothing could have been seen around them, and Lyanna wondered how she was going to get out of the keep all by herself, and thanked Prince Rhaegar inwardly for sending his faithful knight to her. Alone, she would never have made it, she would have been caught by the guards, or got lost among the dark, silent buildings, which turned into a real labyrinth at night.

“I hope I’m taking the right way,” Whent muttered, “seems to be here.”

He dived into one of the dark alcoves, Lyanna heard a deep breath and the scratching creak of long-unlubricated hinges.

“Come here,” ser Oswell's hand stuck out of the alcove, holding the lantern.

Lyanna walked onto the light, stepping carefully on the cold stone floor. Instead of a grey wall, there was a door behind Whent, leading into a seemingly even greater darkness. A damp smell of mould and oldness hit Lyanna’s nose. The crypt of Winterfell smelled like that, if one got further down, to the statues of the ancient Kings of the North. As children, they often played there without any fear of the old rulers’ stern looks.

“Fear not, my lady,” ser Oswell held out his free hand.

Lyanna took it hesitantly and let the night embrace her. She trusted Prince Rhaegar and those he called his friends. Whent slammed the door shut, cutting them off from the outside world, and Lyanna felt uneasy. The yellow reflections of the lantern flame quivered on the damp walls, and her own shadow looked like some kind of terrible demon who had escaped from the horrible ice hell.

“I thought that it’s ser Arthur I had to defeat,” Whent said, his voice echoing off the walls, as if in a deep well, “but it looks like I have a tougher opponent.”

“Ser Oswell,” Lyanna hesitated, not daring to ask him a question that worried her, “I know you are obliged to follow the orders of the prince, you have no other choice, but do tell me honestly, with no jokes, do you despise him... and me?”

“You are wrong, my lady,” Whent's voice sounded unusually serious, “it’s not the prince I have to serve, only the king. Everything I do for Rhaegar, I do solely for his own sake. As for your question, I have no right to despise either of you. Gods alone know what I would do if I were in your shoes.”

Oswell Whent gazed at Lyanna and gave her an encouraging smile. He said nothing more, and Lyanna heard only his firm footsteps. The corridor ended, replaced by a staircase, and the Stark girl grabbed onto the walls with her hands, afraid to stumble. Ser Oswell, noticing that she was falling behind, slowed his pace. The dampness that filled the air around them had got into their clothes, Lyanna’s dress and cloak became heavy and almost ceased to bring any warmth. Lyanna shivered, feeling that her fingers already resembled little icicles.

“It won't take long,” Whent said, noticing her discomfort.

The staircase, which began to seem endless to Lyanna, ended soon, as ser Oswell had promised, but in the end, it had almost deceived the girl with its missing last step. Her foot, expecting to land on a hard surface, dropped into the darkness instead. Lyanna would certainly have fallen if the kingsguard had not caught her in time.

“Careful, Lady Lyanna,” Ser Oswell shook his head, “if you break your beautiful hands, the prince will take seven skins off me. You don't want me dead, do you?”

Lyanna laughed a hard, worried laugh. Whent certainly believed that he was taking her to a romantic date, but Lyanna did not know yet what she would tell Prince Rhaegar and how she would behave. Soon she will see him, look into those sad indigo eyes and forget about everything, about caution, about his father, about her brothers, about Winterfell, about marriage to Robert, and the Prince’s vow that had bound him to another. For ser Oswell, everything that happened seemed to be an adventure, while Lyanna felt as if she intended to commit a crime. She acted low and unworthy, but at the same time she simply could not do otherwise, like a woman who was selling her body to feed herself.

“What do you think of Jaime Lannister?” Lyanna asked to distract herself a little.

“I've seen him in battle,” ser Oswell began thoughtfully. “He's really good. But I can’t tell you anything else, during those few months that he served here, I didn’t have time to get to know him enough. Why, if I may ask, are you interested in young Lannister?”

“Recently I’ve had a little talk with him, he seemed pleasant to me,” Lyanna explained.

“If I were you, I would be more careful,” ser Oswell shook his head, “remember who his sister is.”

Having left the dark and cold corridor, they got out into the pavilion that was hiding in the city garden, passed through the garden itself and, having walked another several blocks, found themselves at the door of that very tavern. Lyanna felt her whole body tremble as soon as ser Oswell opened the door for her. The girl stepped hesitantly inside; the guard was shadowing her. Rhaegar was singing, the sound of his voice, accompanied by a sad, mournful melody, filled the small hall, and Lyanna's heart ached. It seemed that he was singing about her, about the feeling of hopelessness that was pressing down on her with a huge stone slab, threatening to destroy her, about the unprecedented yearning that she experienced every time she looked at him.

The Prince's face was hidden under a hood, and Lyanna could not see his eyes. His voice seemed cold and otherworldly, as if it were not a song, but a prophecy about the future, which only he knew. The few guests of the tavern, merchants and artisans mostly, stopped chewing and drinking, and listened to Prince Rhaegar's singing, not even suspecting for an inch of who was in front of them. Lyanna and ser Oswell stepped aside a little, hiding in a dark corner, trying not to draw attention to themselves. At one of the tables Lyanna spotted ser Arthur, he pretended to sip his ale leisurely, but his dark purple eyes peered tenaciously into the faces of the people around him.

“The prince is lucky to have such loyal friends as you and ser Arthur,” Lyanna whispered.

“Mayhap,” Whent chuckled. “Arthur certainly fusses too much around him, he takes care of Rhaegar, as if he is a small child. The kingsguards must give their lives for the king if necessary, but we would gladly give it up for the prince as well.”

In the meantime, Rhaegar had finished singing and disappeared somewhere in the back of the hall, Arthur Dayne rose from his seat and followed him, Oswell signalled to Lyanna, and they also moved in that direction. Gradually, the visitors began to come back to life, a chomp and a sip was heard here and there, and conversations began to hum. No one paid attention to the knight and the girl, and Lyanna no longer heard anything except the thumping heart in her chest.

Arthur Dayne stood at a narrow inconspicuous door, he bowed to Lyanna and said:

“Come inside, he is waiting for you.”

Ser Arthur was the one who definitely disapproved. Lyanna felt uncomfortable with this, as she really wanted to be friends with Dayne, but, apparently, under the present circumstances it was impossible. Thanking ser Arthur, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a trembling hand.

Prince Rhaegar stood in the middle of the chamber, looking utterly lost. His hands were busy twirling the ring on his ring finger. When he saw Lyanna, his eyes flashed, he opened his mouth, but said nothing, only burned the girl with his gaze. Lyanna lowered her eyes in embarrassment and felt almost rooted to the dusty wooden floor. Excitement squeezed her throat, making it difficult to speak, and all her thoughts scattered around all of a sudden. How ridiculous and funny it must have looked. What would the Prince think of her?

"Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar's voice sounded unexpectedly hoarse, as if he had recently recovered from an illness. There was nothing left from the silver chime she had heard only a few moments ago. “If you came here to laugh at me, then, really, you shouldn't...”

“No,” Lyanna cried sharply, reaching out and grasping the empty air.

“Then why was it your desire to see me?” despair and supplication merged in the Prince's question. “You’ve made it quite clear to me several times that I should not bother you anymore, and I...”

His words broke off, Rhaegar covered his face with his hands and shook his head. His impulsive gestures frightened Lyanna, and she, having taken several steps back, pressed her back against the door. What was she doing to him? Lyanna looked up hesitantly only to see the Prince standing beside her already. Rhaegar was so close she could hear his rapid, ragged breathing. He grabbed her hands and pressed them to his chest, Lyanna felt his heart pounding under the fabric of his doublet.

“Lyanna,” he whispered, “I beg you, say something! Has anyone offended you? Do you need my help? You just have to ask and I will do everything for you. I am so guilty before you, but I am ready for everything for your sake, for everything! I love you Lyanna!”

The Prince’s last words were uttered with the despair of a man doomed to be forever tormented. Lyanna sighed softly, and, pulling her hands out of his captivity, put them around his neck. Rhaegar's arms closed around her waist, and she fell into the Prince's embrace, forgetting everything. There remained nothing else, only this small dark room, the warm palms of Rhaegar on her back, the scent of lemon and mint that made her feel drunk better than Dornish wine.

“I’ve come here,” Lyanna muttered, lifting her head from his chest and looking into his frightened eyes, “because I wanted to see you. I thought I could get you out of my mind, but nothing came of it. You and I are terrible people, we both do bad things, but how can you command your heart?”

“No, Lyanna, you cannot,” Rhaegar's lips touched the top of her head lightly, and a flock of restless goosebumps ran through the girl's body, “your heart would never obey. You're right, we both are wrong, but what else can we do?”

“I don’t know,” Lyanna shook her head. “I thought you could tell me that.”

“I don’t know that myself,” the Prince sighed. “One thing is clear to me: I don’t want to let you go. Will you... will you allow me to kiss you?”

Lyanna didn’t really answer, she just nodded convulsively, biting her lower lip. Rhaegar pulled her closer to him, and after a moment Lyanna felt his gentle soft kiss on her lips. She was trembling all over, as if a cold wind were piercing her body. Lyanna knew nothing at all about the way of kissing and caressing that a man and a woman share. She had no mother or friends who could have told her about it, sometimes she had overheard Brandon's obscene stories, but they only made her feel disgusted. Everything was so simple in her dreams, but now Lyanna was confused and did not understand how she should react to what Rhaegar was doing. She pressed her lips tightly together, and her body seemed to have turned to stone with fear.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar looked at her with a concerned frown. “Was this unpleasant for you? Have I offended you in any way? Believe me, that was not my intention.”

“No, no,” she exclaimed, “I… I just… was at a loss, not knowing what to do.”

Lyanna's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she turned away, afraid to look at the Prince. A low chuckle echoed somewhere over her ear, and Rhaegar's rough hand fell on her cheek, forcing her to turn to him. Lyanna obeyed, still avoiding glancing at him.

“You can follow me,” the Prince whispered, and his hot breath washed over her skin. Lyanna exhaled convulsively, trying to stop being so very afraid.

Rhaegar kissed her forehead, her eyes and nose and touched her lips again. This time, the girl answered him uncertainly, slightly opening her lips and hesitatingly repeating after him. She feared that he would not like it, but the Prince only stopped kissing her when they both needed air.

“Lyanna Stark,” Rhaegar smiled, and it was the first time she was witnessing such a smile on his lips, “tell me that you love me.”

“I love you, prince Rhaegar,” Lyanna murmured in fascination, and he kissed her again.


	24. Arthur IV

It was suspiciously quiet behind the closed doors, and Arthur even wondered if his sister had gone somewhere else again. Nevertheless, in order to finally be convinced of her absence, he knocked softly, but rather persistently. Unhurried, seemingly cautious footsteps were heard, the lock clicked, and Ashara appeared before Dayne. She looked somehow not too pleased, even upset, and Arthur became worried.

“Hello, brother,” Ashara opened the door, letting her brother inside. She tried to look familiarly casual, but Arthur still felt that he had showed up at the wrong time.

A mountain of useless trifles lay on a small table by the window, including graceful combes of wood and ivory, hairpins adorned with precious stones and elaborate enamel, as well as various ladies' accessories and bottles of fragrant water and oils brought from Pentos or Lys. Crumpled parchment, covered entirely in large, neat letters, was thrown at the top of it all. Ashara went quickly to the table, grabbed the letter and shoved it into one of the small drawers hastily, then turned to her brother.

“Are you all right?” Arthur inquired cautiously, puzzled by her behaviour.

His sister was not one of those who willingly shared her troubles with anyone. The knight remembered how, while still a little girl, she got a sweating sickness from one of the maids and, feeling awfully bad, did not tell anyone about it, enduring her suffering steadfastly and not giving herself away. Her brothers learned about her illness only when she fainted right at the dining table. Her fortitude then cost them a groom and several servants, thanks to the Seven, neither baby Allyria, nor he and his older brother were infected.

Ashara nodded uncertainly, then shrugged. Her fingers played restlessly with one of the large dark tourmaline hairpins.

“I would hate to talk about it,” she said quietly, “but I guess it’s not just about me, so I have to share it with you. Eddard wrote to me. His father... did not give his consent to our marriage. Being more precise, it is not exactly that, he says that we should wait another year or two before announcing our engagement, but these words sound like a refusal for me, although Eddard persists hoping for the best,” Ashara closed her eyes wearily and began to massage her temples with her slender fingers. “Why Arthur? Eddard is free, so am I, what could prevent us from being together?”

"Can lord Eddard explain his father's reasoning?" Arthur asked with a sigh. It would be better if these Starks had never gotten in his way. All of them seemed to him sincere and honest people, but the children of the Warden of the North carried too many difficulties and concerns along with them.

“No,” Ashara shook her head. She did not add anything else, and Arthur did not consider it necessary to question her further. If she so desires, his sister will tell him everything herself.

Rickard Stark's decision, however, truly seemed very strange and inexplicable. This marriage did not hurt anyone's honour, both Ashara and Eddard Stark belonged to the ancient and respected houses and were not bound by promises to anyone. There was also no enmity between Starfall and Winterfell, in any case, Arthur had never heard of anything of that sort. The Daynes, however, were loyal to the Targaryens and swore allegiance to the Martells, who through the marriage of Princess Arianne and Prince Viserys would become related to the royal family and thus can be considered allies of the ruling house. This led to some disturbing and unpleasant thoughts. He should definitely tell Rhaegar about this, perhaps the news would cool him a little.

“I’ve come to talk about something else,” Arthur finally allowed himself to sink into a chair, he was ashamed that he could not really console her, but his sister did not allow him to do this herself, “have you managed to learn something on the matter I’ve asked you about?”

“Almost nothing,” Ashara said apologetically, “I was really eager to help you, but no one knows anything, although many were truly surprised by this choice of flowers. Someone’s heard lord Whent mention that these would be lilies and forget-me-nots from his glass house, for too much coin has been spent on prizes and hospitality already and it could not be wasted on the flowers for a laurel.”

“When did he say that?” Arthur specified.

“It seems even before the arrival of the royal family,” Ashara mused.

“It's all so strange,” Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. In his attempts to find out the truth, he always walked round and round an endless circle, like an unfortunate traveller, lost in the woods and no longer hoping to find a path that would lead him to human dwelling.

“You should ask Oswell,” Ashara suggested carefully. She sank down next to Arthur’s chair and took her brother by the hand “judging by what you speak of him, he can be trusted, and lord Whent is his brother.”

“Do you suppose I didn't think of this myself?” Arthur smiled at his sister. “Lord Whent told Oswell no more than he did me. He says that the care of the flowers was entrusted to the master of the tournament. Lord Walter was taken aback himself no less than us, when he spotted winter roses on that cushion, and was certainly worried about his coin, because the huge price of these flowers is well known to everyone. Lord Whent, as soon as the commotion subsided, rushed to the master immediately, but the man only put his hands up in the air and said that he had received a note supposedly from lord Whent himself, ordering to purchase these particular flowers. The note was accompanied by a purse full of golden dragons.”

“So what?” Ashara was surprised. "Didn't lord Went find that suspicious?"

“It seemed he did,” Arthur nodded, “but his first thought was of the prince.”

“Are you sure the prince truly has nothing to do with it?” Ashara asked.

“I'm sure,” Arthur said firmly, “Rhaegar can be unpredictable, but he couldn't have planned that. And if an idea like that would have come up in his mind, he would have probably turned to me for help.”

Arthur did not add that the Prince saw a message from the gods in this laurel, pointing out Lyanna Stark as the wife destined for him by the prophecy. Ashara, who had not known Rhaegar as long and as good as Arthur, would have thought the Prince was insane. Well, perhaps, it really was a message, only the gods had nothing to do with it.

“If you say so,” Ashara shrugged her shoulders absentmindedly, got up and walked to the window.

His sister's violet eyes looked serious, the sparks that always danced in them died out, although Ashara tried to smile. Stark's letter seemed to disappoint her more than she wanted to admit. Arthur was alarmed, he felt that some big game was starting, in which Ashara's happiness became a bargaining chip. Perhaps Varys was telling the truth when he informed the King of the Northern conspiracy? But what did the younger Starks know about their father's plans then?

Eddard, it seemed, was either too naive or completely ignorant, since he dared to ask his father for a blessing of his marriage with Ashara. Dayne might have suspected Lyanna if he hadn't seen the way she looked at Prince Rhaegar. It was impossible to mask such a thing, and even more so, Lyanna Stark was not capable of such, as she did not know how to keep her overly passionate feelings in check, like her older brother. Brandon also did not seem capable of the undercover games. Dayne watched the oldest of the Stark siblings a lot at the training yard, he was easily inflamed, was impatient and always played straight, relying more on his strength and almost not following the actions of his opponent. Arthur was inclined to think that Brandon Stark would rather throw himself at the King with a sword than organize a conspiracy.

And yet, Rickard Stark had to try to use his children’s presence in the capital for his own benefit, perhaps even without their knowledge. Arthur frowned to himself: Ashara was in danger even though she did not know of its existence. The same could be said of Rhaegar, should one of Lyanna's relatives find out about their secret meetings. The knight was already tired of telling the Prince how rash and reckless it was, but his friend just brushed it off. Rhaegar justified everything by the need to fulfil this damned prophecy, which the Prince had stuck into his head when he was a child. However, Arthur noticed that Rhaegar mentioned it less and less now, carried away completely by his newfound love, in which the Prince bathed, as if in the waves of the gentle warm sea, fully oblivious to the impending storm. Dayne had to admit to himself that his own heart had involuntarily began to soften at the sight of these two mad people, and sometimes he even envied them, regretting somewhere in the depths of his soul that he had never experienced such heavy feelings. The destructive power of this love was equal to its inner strength, Rhaegar and Lyanna did not understand or did not want to understand that if they made only the slightest mistake, they could cast a spark that would light a fire all over the Seven Kingdoms.

“Will you write a reply for Eddard Stark?” Arthur asked his sister after they both spent some time in thought.

“Yes,” Ashara didn’t respond right away, and her tone was a little guilty, “do you think I should break up with him?”

“What difference does my opinion make if you write to him anyway?” Arthur grinned.

“What makes you think that I won’t follow your advice?” his sister's eyes flashed slyly.

“Lovers are not inclined to hear the voice of reason, Ashara, and you are in love,” Arthur said condescendingly.

“Perhaps you're right,” Ashara agreed, “but you know what?” She smiled. “You are just envious.”

Arthur began to object, but his sister only giggled in response. Perhaps there was some truth in her words, but Dayne did not develop this idea further. Now was not the perfect time or place. He had too many other concerns, and in the midst of this madness, at least someone should remain capable of logical reasoning. Arthur kissed his sister on the forehead and left her, confident that Ashara would immediately start composing a letter to her northman.

Dayne chose to retire early that evening, because tomorrow he had a whole day in the company of the King, which was always too tiresome. The weather was warm, and Arthur did not even think of starting a fire in the hearth. In his tiny chamber in the White Sword Tower it was usually damp, but a small two-fold window faced south, and the sun managed to warm up the air during the day, which was no longer shiveringly cold. From day to day, the Great Maester Pycell awaited the white raven from the Citadel, heralding the arrival of the long-awaited spring. This winter lasted two years, but it had already exhausted the dornishman quite a bit.

Arthur was born in a hot and dry place and for many years he struggled to get used to the damp air of the capital, where it was too stuffy in summer and too cold in winter. He recalled his first winter in King's Landing, when he was only fourteen, and had been serving as squire for two years already. That winter lasted three long years and was recognized down in the history of the Seven Kingdoms as particularly harsh and merciless. Arthur remembered well how he shivered from the cold all the time, despite his woollen breeches, a quilted doublet and a fur cloak, he recollected how other squires gossiped that people were dying of hunger in the North, because they had not had enough time to store the necessary amount of crops in the summer. That winter he became a knight and received Dawn from the hands of his older brother, that winter Rhaegar Targaryen called him his friend.

At night, a strong wind rose over Blackwater Bay, and through his sleep Arthur heard a howl similar to the one of a lone wolf who had lost his pack in the deep woods, and the desperate creak of an old window frame, about to give in to the wind and swing wide open. The door clicked and screeched, and Dayne jumped on the bed, thinking that a draft had opened it, but the kingsguard’s eyes saw only Varys's soft face, perfectly round like a wheel of cheese. Arthur thought that all this was just a continuation of his disturbing dream, and began to rub his eyelids, heavy with sleep. The too sweet smell of perfumed water hit Dayne's nose, and the knight realized that the master of whisperers was quite real and had truly come in the middle of the night to his modest chamber. Arthur’s right hand reached out slowly to grab the Dawn which lay close by the bed.

“No need, ser Arthur,” Varys said calmly, “if I wanted to kill you, I would use poison or would cut your throat while you slept. Otherwise, I'm afraid, I would have had no chance, and I'm not up to committing suicide.”

“You’ve frightened me, my lord,” Arthur said with displeasure, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “if you wanted to talk to me, we could have done it in a more suitable environment.”

“What I wish to talk to you about should not be discussed in a place where we can be overheard at any moment. There are not only my birds in this castle, but also other people's rats. The passage leading to your chamber and some other chambers in the Tower is known only to me, I can be sure of this, and no one will know about our conversation.”

Arthur glanced at the door and was surprised to note that it was still locked. How did the Spider get in? The knight began to look around in search of a mysterious passage. The fact that the master of whisperers penetrates into his room for the second time with unimaginable ease worried and alarmed Arthur.

“It is not worth it, my friend,” Varys smiled, “in such darkness you will not see anything, although you can try your luck in daylight, you still will not go beyond the first junction.”

“What is it that you want from me?” Dayne asked irritably.

“I’d like to talk about your sister,” the master of whisperers grinned, “she is far too curious to my liking.”

Arthur held his breath. Squinting, he glanced at Varys, his hand gripping the hilt of Dawn. Let the Spider only try to threaten his sister, he will remove the head from the slimy eunuch’s neck, and what comes next will be decided only by the gods. _You are now a kingsguard, Arthur_ , the words of Gerold Hightower emerged from somewhere in the past, _you have no family, no wife or lover, no home._ _You have only the king instead, remember this well, otherwise you will have a hard time_. Dayne knew that when he became a white knight, he had disowned his family, but he still could not help it. He did not want to die for the Mad King, but for the sake of his sister's well-being he was ready to do it.

“Calm down, ser Arthur,” Varys held out a hand with thick fingers which reminded fat worms, “I am not going to harm lady Ashara in any way. On the contrary, I came here to warn you and her. Surely, she's acting at your request, is she not?”

Dayne had no choice but to nod submissively and clench his teeth in anger. He turned out to be a schemer no better than Brandon Stark, and even pulled his own sister into all this.

“If I managed to notice lady Ashara's unexplainable interest in the notorious laurel of winter roses,” the master of whisperers continued, “then the masters of the castle rats had undoubtedly succeeded in that as well. Don't you think this won’t help the case too much?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur agreed reluctantly.

“Your trouble, my dear ser,” the Spider bent too close, and the smell of perfumed water became so strong that Dayne winced involuntarily, “that you knock on only one door, and there are loads of them. You know yourself that even before the arrival of the royal family to Harrenhal, lord Whent said openly that he was going to use flowers from his greenhouse for the laurel of the queen of love and beauty, and only a short time later the master of the tourney was instructed to purchase winter roses. Thus, it is not difficult to calculate that from the moment when the decision about the laurel was made, until the final day of the jousting, it passed from five to seven days. Is this enough to deliver the roses from the North ‒ the only place where they grow?”

“No,” Arthur shook his head. “So, someone planned it in advance... but...”

“Wait, ser Arthur,” the master of whisperers interrupted Dayne, “not necessarily. How much do you know about the northern blue roses?”

“Not much,” the white knight was forced to admit.

“Winter roses are transported and stored in flat wooden boxes filled with ice,” the Spider continued, “so it is almost impossible to get such flowers far from the North in summer. Now, however, it’s winter, and some flower merchants keep small stocks of blue roses. Surprisingly, in the cold they do not wither for quite a long time and one can always manage to sell a small batch to rich people in love or some queers. They usually sell one flower at a time, because it’s rare, when someone’s willing to spend his coin on more. And even one single flower brings a huge profit, and here someone’d bought several pieces at once. There was definitely no time to search long for flowers, and the choice must have fallen on one of Harrenton's traders. The master of the tourney was given a note and coin, allegedly from lord Whent, to keep everything looking clean.”

“Do you think the master was not the one, who chose the merchant?” Dayne asked curiously.

“I do,” Varys shook his head, “I suppose he was chosen by the very same person who started the mess.”

“So, the merchant can lead us to…” Arthur began, but the Spider cut in once more.

“You’re running too far ahead again,” he said, cunningly folding his hands on his knees, “the one who planned this is, firstly, very rich, and secondly, he knows the prince well and, perhaps, even studies all his movements. This person definitely happens to be at court, it is unlikely that he would personally come to the flower-merchant. Nevertheless, it would be useful to talk to the merchant himself.”

“Do you know his name?” the white knight exclaimed.

“You think too badly of me,” the eunuch pursed his lips, feigning disappointment, “of course I know his name.”

“And you will talk to him?” Dayne asked bluntly.

“No,” Varys snapped, “but my birds are already circling around him. They sang to me that on the day after the welcome feast, our venturesome tradesman had already started buying winter roses from his fellow flower-sellers. This proves to us that he was warned in advance and someone made sure that the master of the tourney would go to him.”

"So, you are not going to try and question him?" Arthur specified again.

“I won't,” Varys confirmed. “You will.”

“Me?” Arthur wanted to object immediately that he could not just go away from the capital without the consent of the King, leaving his sister and Rhaegar, who, in the company of the too careless ser Oswell, is capable of doing something irreparable.

“It’s you,” the master of whisperers smiled slyly, “but you don’t have to jump on your horse right now and rush to the riverlands. We will come up with an assignment for you, do not worry.”

“Fine,” Arthur agreed, still unsure of trusting Varys, “why are you doing this?” The knight asked once again.

“I’m giving you a chance,” the Spider said, but Dayne didn’t understand his meaning. “Well, it’s not long before dawn, and you need to rest. Goodbye, ser Arthur.”

The knight expected that the eunuch would leave the room in the same way that he had come, however, he asked Arthur to unlock the door and went out in the most usual way, probably to use another passage, which was also known to him. Dayne sighed and climbed into bed, but he never closed his eyes that night.

The day in the company of the King turned out to be exactly what Arthur had expected. He tried again not to hear or notice anything, but he ended up noticing and hearing too much: insults, mockery, ridicule, fits of anger and paranoia, the answer to which was only flattering speeches or submissive silence. Thank the Seven, there was no other round of King’s justice today, but there was a family dinner, which Aerys had initiated, apparently for his own entertainment. Out of all those gathered at the table, the smiling ones were only little Viserys, who invariably received praises from his father, and Princess Cersei, but her smile was too forced.

“When my third son is born,” Aerys croaked loudly, addressing his youngest child, “you will become a good example for him.”

“Try to be kind to him, my boy,” Rhaella smiled, she stroked her belly with her hand, and with the other one she reached for Viserys, but under the angry gaze of the King, she pulled it back quickly, “to him and your future nephew.”

“Don't listen to your mother, Viserys,” Aerys snorted, “you have to be strict; weakness is unacceptable for a true dragon. And the lion’s pawn,” he measured Cersei with dark narrowed eyes, “deserves no place near my children. Moreover, I'm sure my oldest son and his wife will produce another useless girl.”

“It's too early to talk about it, father,” Rhaegar said quietly. The blood drained from the Prince's face, but he remained sitting motionless and looked directly into the eyes of the King.

A smile slipped from Cersei's lips like melting wax. She threw an incomprehensible look at her husband, but he said nothing more, only put his hand on his wife's shoulder, probably urging her to be silent. Cersei, however, did not listen to him as always.

“I’m sure I will provide an heir to your son, Your Grace,” the Princess said hotly, leaning across the table.

“Let's see,” Aerys chuckled contemptuously, having lost interest in the topic. Cersei, without realizing it herself, had clearly tired him with her obvious flattery and constant obsession. The King hated her father so much that there was no reason in the world that would make Aerys Targaryen treat the daughter of his former Hand good enough. Arthur thought that the King had agreed to Rhaegar’s marriage to Cersei only in order to insult his own son.

An unpleasant silence followed the exchange. Only Prince Viserys and the King ate, Rhaegar sat, tensed like the string of his harp, and looked in front of him, Rhaella fumbled with the slices of stewed vegetables on her plate, and Cersei knifed her mutton desperately, as it did not want to give in to the Princess.

“I'm leaving for Summerhall in a week,” Rhaegar announced suddenly.

Aerys tore his eyes from his food just for a moment and waved his hand, the frequent trips of his son to the ruins of the castle that was burned down on the day of the Prince’s birth bothered the King no more than someone's bad habit. Cersei stopped cutting her meat and stared at her husband with a mixture of surprise and displeasure.

“A solitary journey again?” Rhaella asked.

“Yes, mother,” the Prince nodded.

“Please, Rhaegar, take at least ser Arthur with you!” The Queen begged. “It scares me that you are all alone there.”

“You should stay silent, woman,” Aerys shouted at his wife, “even though your son bangs out his harp and likes to entertain young women with his squeaky voice, he’s still a man, not a shy girl.”

“Mother,” the Prince, as if not noticing his father’s words, smiled affectionately at his mother, “I’ve been there alone many times, and nothing has happened to me.”

“And every time you go, you make me worry,” the Queen allowed herself to take her son by the hand, “please, Rhaegar, give me a restful sleep.”

“Well,” the Prince gave up, “father, will you allow ser Arthur to accompany me?”

“Do whatever you want to do,” the King stood up and, without saying more, walked away. Ser Gerold followed him, and Arthur, at a sign from the Prince, remained in the room.

Rhaegar, having waited for a few moments, also rose from the table, bowed to his wife and mother and patted Viserys on his silver hair-crown, returning a smile to his younger brother's face.

“Ser Arthur,” the Prince turned to the knight, “do you mind going with me now?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Arthur nodded.

They exited, Rhaegar walking fast, slightly ahead of Dayne. To Arthur’s surprise, the Prince led him to the nursery. The wet-nurse, upon seeing Rhaegar, jumped up from her seat and began to bow so low that she had almost hit the floor with her forehead, while Visenya continued to crawl on her four limbs, exploring the fluffy Myrish carpet.

“Go and rest, Keera,” the Prince smiled, “I'll put my daughter to bed myself.”

The wet-nurse, having showered Rhaegar with expressions of gratitude, hastened to be on her way, leaving the two men alone with the child. The Prince laughed and picked Visenya up in his arms and began to swing her around, which made the little girl giggle merrily. Arthur watched his friend with some bewilderment, not understanding what he was doing here himself.

“Arthur, you look at me as if you’ve seen a snark,” the Prince laughed, “do not be afraid, I will not force you to babysit the child, I just thought that there is less chance of being overheard here.”

Dayne nodded in appreciation, continuing to watch Rhaegar in surprise. Having crossed the threshold of the nursery, the Prince seemed to have been relieved of some of the heavy weight that he was dragging on his shoulders, his expression came to life, he made funny faces to his daughter and whispered something quietly in her ear.

“This is a miracle, my friend,” Rhaegar looked at the knight, beaming. The Prince sat down in an armchair, put his daughter on his lap, continuing to hug her and gave the girl a wooden dragon, which occupied all her attention immediately. “I'm sorry that you...”

“There’s no need,” Dayne interrupted his friend, not wanting to discuss the topic the Prince intended to bring up and trying to turn the conversation into another direction, “I'm sorry, you have to take me as your companion, I know you wouldn’t wish to.”

“You're wrong,” Rhaegar shook his head. “I wanted you to go. Mother always insists on taking you with me, I knew that she would insist this time too. But my father thinks now that his foolish son only succumbed to the persuasions of his overworried mother. I need to talk to you about something very important, I cannot discuss it here, and in Summerhall no one will hear us, with the exception of, perhaps, ghosts, and such a trip will not arise any suspicion.”

“Your prophecies again?” Arthur asked.

“No,” the Prince denied, dodging the dragon, which Visenya carried in front of his nose.

“You surprise me,” the knight said thoughtfully, “I’ve never thought you were capable of such a thing.”

“People change,” Rhaegar said dismissively. “I've stayed away too long. This is no longer possible. We'll talk at Summerhall, my friend. I need your valuable advice and your sword more than ever.”

_If only you ever listened to my advice_ , Arthur thought and grinned quietly to himself.

Dayne had intended to speak with his friend about his night's conversation with Varys, but decided to postpone it until Summerhall. If Rhaegar feared that they might be overheard, then the Prince has every reason. He told his friend about Eddard Stark's letter to Ashara instead.

“Perhaps this is not someone's scheming and not your father's madness,” the knight said, “perhaps the Starks are really up to something, and all these marriages...”

“Perhaps,” Rhaegar agreed, “I’ve thought about it too.”

“Lady Lyanna,” Arthur whispered, “she...”

“She knows nothing,” the Prince cut him off.

“Did you ask her?” Dayne inquired curiously.

“Yes, not directly, of course, but what she’d said to me was enough.” Rhaegar was distracted and got hit in the nose by the dragon, which made his daughter laugh again. “I suppose her older brother knows better.”

“I agree, I believe so too,” Arthur nodded, “what are you going to do with lady Lyanna if the Stark plot truly exists?”

“What do you mean?” Rhaegar asked.

“You will both find yourself on different sides,” Arthur explained, “you will have to go against her family.”

“I won't have to, my friend,” the Prince mused strangely, he looked around, as if making sure that no one else was here, and leaning almost to Dayne's ear, whispered: “If the scheme truly exists, then I won't disclose it, I intend to join it.”


	25. Rhaegar IV

“Hello, my little girl,” Rhaegar whispered, hugging his daughter delicately.

The little princess was very warm and tender, soft, she smelled sweetly of milk and comfort, the very feeling the Prince did not know and did not experience before. When he took Visenya in his arms, he felt calm, and a velvet sensation of peace spread over his tense body. Rhaegar could fully enjoy this happy emotion only in the nursery, wrapping himself in it, as if in a warm fur cloak.

In response to her father's greeting, the baby smiled, revealing two small lower teeth, which she managed to acquire in the last month. Like all children whose first teeth began to grow, Visenya became far more capricious and disturbed, and Rhaegar spent whole nights beside the whining child, taking shifts with the wet-nurse, who was collapsing from fatigue, like he himself, by the way. Cersei, on the other hand, could not stay in the nursery for more than an hour and ran away quickly, complaining of weariness and headache.

Rhaegar did not reproach her, he just did not say anything at all, preferring to simply remain silent. Cersei sensed an unspoken accusation in this and considered it necessary to justify herself, repeating many times that in her condition it was vital to sleep well, and she could not take care of only one child, not paying attention to the needs of the other, even if it had not yet been born. The Princess, in her husband’s opinion, mentioned her condition far too often, apparently wanting to make Rhaegar feel guilty, but achieved exactly the opposite. Her endless complains killed the last respect he had for her. Nevertheless, the Prince continued to take care of Cersei, making sure that his wife was in need of nothing.

However, the couple hardly exchanged a word for the whole day, and their daughter, instead of tying them tighter, further alienated Rhaegar and Cersei from each other. Visenya's eyes were no longer a mix of grey and blue, which were common for all the new-born babies, but turned into emerald, the same as those of her mother. Shiny silver, inherited from her father, sparkled now in her hair. Her gaze had already become completely conscious, and Rhaegar was willing to bet that it was full with enough archness and cunning. The Prince hoped that a great future awaited his daughter, and was ready to do everything for this. Gods may have intended Lyanna Stark for him, but Rhaegar would never have dared to bypass his children in any way.

When Cersei had just told her husband that she was expecting a child again, it confused him, for the Prince's calculations about the prophecy and its connection to Lyanna Stark were questioned one more time, but after some reflection, Rhaegar decided that the Prince That Was Promised did not need to become king, for he was destined for absolutely a different role. If Cersei gives birth to a boy, he will become the rightful heir and in due time will inherit the Iron Throne. This means that so is the will of the gods, and it is useless for ordinary mortals, even from royal origin, to interfere with it.

As early as Harrenhal, Rhaegar wrote about all his doubts to his granduncle Aemon Targaryen who had served as a maester in the Night's Watch. Maester Aemon knew a lot and had seen a lot, and the Prince often consulted with the old man ever since he had first learned about the prophecy. Maester gave him valuable advice, guided his rushing thoughts, and recommended books that Rhaegar should read. However, Aemon never shared the Prince's unshakable belief in this or that idea, which Rhaegar ardently and wordily expounded in long letters that the ravens carried through a good half of the country as far as the Wall. The old man described in detail certain shortcomings of all the assumptions Rhaegar made, and urged him to pursue his search further. But this time, the maester’s words seemed suddenly strange to the Prince, although he could not deny their truthfulness and simplicity.

_I strongly believe, Rhaegar,_ maester Aemon wrote, _you should empty your mind, which is too full now, as a cauldron of boiling stew. Its contents are about to pour out if you do not slacken the fire. Halt, freeze, step aside and try to look at the picture from afar, from the other side, because now you are immersed too deeply. Be like a dragon that, from the height of its flight, sees what a simple person cannot notice, looking only at his feet. Do not rush and do not do anything hastily, remember how much depends on you alone. If the prophecy is true, it will still come to be, no matter if you do something for it or not._

_The dreams you’d told me about have interested and alarmed me. I am inclined to agree that these are not ordinary things that people envision during their night’s sleep, but something more, and you have inherited the gift of Daenys and my unfortunate brother Daeron. Please be careful not to jump to conclusions, but take these dreams as seriously as possible. Are you sure that these stone corridors are not familiar to you? You wrote to me once that you are leaving the castle by a secret passage, does it look like the place that you see in your dreams? I assume that you are dreaming of some real place in which something is hidden or will be hidden, try to find it, although I cannot tell you how to do this._

Perhaps maester Aemon was right, and Rhaegar really should have taken a break from trying to adjust his life to the ancient prophecy, which was made many centuries ago, and focus on more up-to-date and mundane matters. For example, on his trip to Summerhall with Arthur and its purpose. It seemed like the right decision now, but it was difficult for Rhaegar to let go of the dream of the Promised Prince so easily. It was to this prophecy that the Prince owed his birth, and, leaving many years of searching behind, he would agree that many members of his family suffered in vain.

Dreams also bothered Rhaegar, and the strenuous efforts to find a clue to them cost him a headache. They no longer came to the Prince at Harrenhal, but reappeared at the Red Keep. Their return had only confirmed the version of maester Aemon that Rhaegar saw real places located somewhere near him. But who could tell the Prince about the multitude of corridors, hidden from all, that permeated the castle up and down, like wormholes? The builders, executed by Maegor, took this secret with them to the grave, as did the cruel king himself, for he did not want to preserve it for his descendants. Varys had the greatest knowledge of the castle mysteries, as they gossiped at court, but he was unlikely to share his insight with the Prince or the Spider could simply deceive him.

Lost in thought, Rhaegar did not notice that his daughter had long been stubbornly demanding his attention, tugging at his chin. The Prince laughed and began to tickle Visenya, who immediately started to echo her father's gushing laughter and beat him on the shoulders with her small fists.

“Well, what is that you want, daughter?” Rhaegar asked. “Should I read to you or sing?”

Visenya just continued to giggle and grabbed the exquisite fabric of his jacket with her tenacious fingers, and the Prince could not understand what her answer was.

“Come on, make up your mind,” Rhaegar urged, continuing to smile broadly.

Looking at his daughter's grin, the Prince thought with a lump in his throat that he would like to share this happiness with Lyanna. He wished most of all that Lyanna would love his daughter as her own, because the girl lacked a mother's warmth so much, and someday Rhaegar hoped to welcome their common child into his arms. The Prince knew it was too early to dream about it, that it would be too difficult or impossible to achieve, but Rhaegar could not forbid himself to wish and hope. Sometimes he closed his eyes and he saw Lyanna wearing a crown of winter roses. Surrounded by children, she sat on the grass and laughed, braiding the locks of the silver-haired girl, and next to her, a serious dark-haired boy was playing with the same dragon that Visenya was now clutching in her hand. Among the trees, in a clearing filled with sun, other children ran around, they called him to join them and waved their arms invitingly, but as soon as Rhaegar took a step towards them, the vision disappeared, leaving the Prince alone.

“You should sin’ somethin’ cheerful, Your ‘ighness.”

Hearing the low, hesitant voice of the wet-nurse, Rhaegar shuddered, forcing Visenya to stare at him with surprise. The Prince raised his eyes and turned to the woman, she was settled in a large chair in the very corner of the room, her plump hands gripping her embroidery tightly, and her eyes shining with outspoken fear.

“More cheerful?” Rhaegar bowed his head in bewilderment, however, not wishing to agitate the poor wet-nurse even more, tried to smile uncertainly.

“Yes,” Keera nodded nervously, “you sin’ beautiful son’s, they make me tremble all over, they do. Only they’re like a knife in me very heart. I sit and I listen and I remember me dear poor boy.”

“My heart,” the Prince corrected unthinkingly. “You should say my heart.”

The wet-nurse looked at him from under her brows, but did not dare to say anything more. Only now Rhaegar remembered that Keera's own son had died, having barely lived for two days, and when Queen Rhaella brought her in, the woman cried all the time and forgot about her grief only thanks to little Visenya. From Keera, the Prince's thoughts returned to her predecessor. Rhaegar was sure that the deceased girl had been poisoned by someone, but he didn't manage to learn more about this frightening incident. After that, everything was calm in the Red Keep, and this slightly cooled the Prince down. Poor Jayne seemed to have a new-born baby. The Prince was too concerned at the time about the safety of his own daughter, but now he felt a prick of conscience nibble him because he did not think about the fate of the poor boy.

“How do you think, Keera,” Rhaegar said, “do you have enough strength to take care of another child?”

“Well, yeah, of course,” the woman responded, not understanding what to expect from the strange Prince, “when your wife gives birth, the little princess will grow up already...”

“No,” Rhaegar interrupted her gently, “that's not what I’ve meant. Could you take the child? Make it a part of your own family?”

“Well, do you want to give me the future prince?” Keera was horrified, covering her open mouth with her hand. She grew a little bolder and looked at Rhaegar without fear, but with undisguised curiosity and some bewilderment.

“What nonsense? Of course not,” the Prince laughed, “the girl who was here before you, Jayne, she had a son...”

“The girl ‘o died?” Keera exclaimed.

“Yes,” Rhaegar nodded, “she did not have a husband, only an aging mother... Sooner or later the boy will be out on the streets, and I would like you to take him.”

“With joy, Your ‘ighness,” Keera smiled, “we’re not rich people, but we’ll feed the baby, we will. You’ve done proper to remember about ‘im, Your ‘ighness.”

“That's right,” the Prince agreed, “when he grows up, he will take lessons together with my daughter. I cannot return his mother to him, but I can help him at least a little.”

“’O would allow that?!” The nurse lifted up her hands, horrified as if Rhaegar had announced that he was going to kill the King. “’Er ‘ighness will be un’appy, and the kin’...” the woman did not finish the sentence and covered her face with her hands in fear.

“It’s up to me to decide how and by whom my children will be brought up, Keera,” Rhaegar said firmly, unable to completely banish anger from his tone.

The wet-nurse's words aggravated him, but there was some truth to them. No one reckoned with the Crown Prince, his opinion and his desires, even his wife, not to mention the King, gave more importance for the servants than to himself. Rhaegar told Arthur the truth, this must end, he should find his own strength, his own part in the mummer’s show, which was called the royal court, otherwise he would never be able to protect those he loved.

In response to his remark, Keera only pursed her lips and nodded briefly, because she would never dare to argue with the Prince himself.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar said dryly. “I'll give orders to find the boy.”

The Prince got up, kissed his daughter on the forehead and, smiling goodbye at her, handed the baby to the slightly frightened wet-nurse. Visenya grumbled with displeasure, not wanting to part with her father, but in Keera's soft and loving arms, she calmed down quickly, and the scowl on her small face was replaced by a cheerful grin again.

Under the grim gaze of Jonothor Darry, standing at his post, Rhaegar left Maegor's Holdfast and walked briskly towards the arsenal. The Prince had to hurry, for he had been late enough already for Lyanna to surely be anxious waiting for him. Whenever the opportunity arose, they met in a small stone hall, which ended the secret passage leading from the Red Keep to the city park. Rhaegar usually disappeared into an inconspicuous niche at the arsenal, and Lyanna, having gone for a walk in the garden, hid in an inconspicuous arbour.

The lovers arranged such meetings through the knights loyal to the Prince ‒ ser Arthur and ser Oswell ‒ using various secret signs, for it would be too rash and dangerous to speak directly or exchange notes. In addition to the kingsguards, they had to confide in Albyn Snow, so that Lyanna could safely go out into the city. Rhaegar was not very keen on the idea, but he agreed that Lyanna could not walk around the capital unguarded, and her frequent presence in the company of the knights of the Kingsguard, who were widely known to be the Prince’s friends, would inevitably raise unwanted suspicions and questions. In addition, Lyanna eagerly convinced him that Albyn could be trusted, and he was much more loyal to her than to her father or brothers.

Rhaegar almost ran down the dark damp stairs, since he knew the place well enough, and he relied on his instinct more than on the faint light of a lantern, which illuminated the path no further than a couple of steps ahead. The Prince was afraid that Lyanna would leave without waiting up for him, and he had almost decided that his fears were confirmed when he did not at once distinguish her silhouette in the darkness. Lyanna flew out of the far corner toward him, like a bat frightened away by the bright light. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck immediately, and the Prince shivered at how cold her fingers were.

“It's you,” she muttered, clinging to him with her whole body and as if not believing that it truly was him, real and alive.

“Of course, it's me, Lyanna,” Rhaegar whispered soothingly, placing fierce kisses on her face, which she eagerly offered to him, wanting to receive the long-awaited affection, “who else could it be?”

“I don’t know,” she said in confusion, hiding her eyes shyly under long black eyelashes, “when you’re here next to me, I’m afraid of nothing, but as soon as I’m alone, I’m overwhelmed by a terrible fear that someone will discover me or something bad will happen to you, or you won't want to come at all.”

“There is no need to be afraid,” the Prince embraced her tighter, feeling a painful prick of guilt for making her experience unpleasant moments. “Forgive me, I should have come on time.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Lyanna asked anxiously.

“No,” Rhaegar shook his head, “I stayed with my daughter.”

He pulled back a little, and carefully taking Lyanna by the small, neat chin, lifted her face to him again in order to get a better look. Here, in the dark stone sack, he could only see her in the dim light of the lantern. The shadows from the trembling flame made her features unrecognizable, sharper and harder, and her pale skin was yellowish, the flame performed a bizarre dance in Lyanna’s eyes, which had become almost black in the darkness and therefore even more mysterious.

Lyanna bit her lip and turned away, forcing Rhaegar to remove his hand from her face. The Prince sighed, it was clear that the poor girl was jealous of his daughter, but was too ashamed to openly confess it.

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar whispered in her ear, his voice trembling slightly, “Lyanna, please don’t. I plead guilty, but...”

“Please say no more,” she exclaimed, placing her hands on his chest and trying to push him away, “I understand, I know, but I… I just… I can't tell you that because I… No, I can't!” She cried heatedly, as if angry with herself.

She let her palms linger on his chest with the persistence of a child who does not want to go to bed, but Rhaegar continued to hold her tightly, not going to release her from his embrace.

“Let us not discuss it now,” the Prince stroked her soft brown tresses and wrapped a strand of hair, that had escaped out of her head, around his finger. Surprisingly, Lyanna's hair was as headstrong as she and the brisk curls invariably strove for freedom, not wanting to remain tied.

“Fine then,” Lyanna lowered her hands and pressed her cheek to the fabric of the Prince's camisole.

Rhaegar remained motionless for a while, hugging her and enjoying the hitherto unknown joy that her closeness gave him. He would never want to release Lyanna, let her go, leaving him in impenetrable solitude, he longed to feel her warmth with every tiny piece of his body, sense the weight of her head on his shoulder, marvel at the tenderness of her small hands. The Prince stirred, forcing Lyanna to look at him and kissed her without warning. Rhaegar heard her breathing, felt her hands trembling, which only made him press harder to her lips. The kiss was made both of the sweetness of a long-awaited meeting, which served as a sip of water in the Dornish desert for them, and the bitterness of a shameful secret that threatened them with public contempt and death. Lyanna responded uncertainly and awkwardly, but with the same ardour. So much tenderness and passion hid in her innocent timidity, and it seemed to Rhaegar that his heart was about to break through his ribcage, and that his legs would not hold him, and he would again collapse into a deep abyss, which would consume him forever, offering no way out.

“I don’t want to part with you,” the Prince muttered as they stood, panting and their foreheads touching one another.

“Me too, Your Highness,” Lyanna's voice sounded hollow and sad, “but, you know, it’s going to end someday, no matter how much we both want it differently. I cannot be your paramour, this... this is wrong, and I beg you not to ask that of me, please, spare me this humiliation, otherwise I may not be able to resist...”

“Lyanna, I will never dare to offend you with any deed or word,” Rhaegar hastened to assure her, “but I promise you, I will find an opportunity...”

Lyanna did not let him finish, putting a finger to his lips.

“Don't promise me anything you cannot fulfil, prince Rhaegar,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I already dream too much about the impossible, and this is dangerous, dangerous for both of us. You will become king and I will go to the Storm's End; this cannot be changed.”

“As you wish,” Rhaegar said eagerly, “I won't promise you anything, but you know, I'll try. You are mine, Lyanna, and I am yours, completely yours, and I cannot belong to any other woman. You are my destiny; we are meant for each other.”

“It's funny,” Lyanna mused, as if remembering something, “when I was on my way to King's Landing, a friend of mine told me that I was going to meet my destiny here. He saw prophetic dreams, which he called green, he claimed that he saw me in his dreams.”

“Oh, did he?” Rhaegar was surprised and thrilled by her story, and even more so that she seemed to believe in what she was saying, “I would like to talk to this friend of yours.”

“Of course, you can summon him to King's Landing,” Lyanna smiled softly, “but he won't tell you anything. Lord Reed believes that it is not wise for a person to be a prisoner of a prediction. If the prophecy is true, then it will certainly come true, and if it is wrong, then it will remain just a useless prophecy, no matter how much effort one makes. He also explained that I would have met my fate anyway, even if I had stayed in Winterfell.”

“Lord Reed?” Rhaegar asked. “The one whose honour you defended so wonderfully?”

“Yes,” Lyanna grinned, and the Prince could not help grinning back as he remembered their adventures in the woods near Harrenhal.

“You’ll be surprised, my uncle wrote the same thing to me recently,” Rhaegar drawled thoughtfully, returning in his reflection to maester Aemon’s letter, which had occupied his mind so much lately.

“Your uncle?” Lyanna asked, she squinted in bewilderment, trying apparently to recall the branchy family tree of the House Targaryen.

“In fact, maester Aemon is the brother of my great-grandfather Aegon the Unlikely, but it's easier for me to call him just uncle,” Rhaegar explained. “He serves in the Night's Watch.”

“I think I've heard of him,” Lyanna muttered, as if making excuses, “but I’ve forgotten.”

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her still cold fingers, “you don't have to memorize all my relatives,” he smiled, “I think your Lord Reed is right, you would have still found your destiny, we would have met anyway. You would have come to Harrenhal with your brothers, or I would have gone North, something would have surely happened, something that would have brought us together. That is my strong belief, I believe that the gods, old and new, are on our side.”

Lyanna looked at the Prince thoughtfully, as if his words had not fully instilled confidence in her.

“I wish I was as convinced as you, but lord Reed has told me some more of his prophetic visions,” Lyanna said slowly, and her voice sounded alarmed. “He spoke of his dreams on the Isle of Faces. He’d seen blood on the grass, blood on the iron steps, blood on the stone floor and on the sand. He’s seen a child’s head smashed against a wall. I cannot forget these words from the moment I first heard them, and cold fear binds me every time I recall them.”

“Fear not, my dear,” Rhaegar put his arms around her shoulders again, finding no more credible words. His own determination was slipping through his fingers. The castles that he had built up for himself turned out to be made of fragile sand. The Prince got confused, he was no longer sure of anything, except that he needed Lyanna, he needed her because he loved her, wanted to see her next to him every day, talk to her, embrace her in front of everyone, without fear and without hiding, touch her, raise children, that she would give him once. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Lyanna said resignedly. Her tone showed the hopelessness of a person suffering from a fatal illness.

Rhaegar's heart sank at the idea that he could not comfort her and even was unable to console himself.

“Can you forgive me, Lyanna?” He touched her cheek gently with his hand, as if wiping away unshed tears. “Because of me you are forced to suffer so much.”

“Don't be silly,” she put her hand over his, “aren't you suffering too? None of us is to blame. It is not your fault that your father married you to a woman you don’t love, that you fell in love with me instead, and that I returned your feelings.”

“You're too kind to me.” Rhaegar smiled sadly. “I don’t deserve your love, but I thank the gods, the old and the new, for the blessing of it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Lyanna exclaimed, turning away, “it is enough for us to know that we are doomed, but since the gods have given us this little time, so let's rejoice, for some others are deprived even of these poor bits.”

“All right, my love,” Rhaegar kissed her, “as you wish.”

Lyanna trembled in his arms, but clung to him more and more tightly, grabbing him by the shoulders, as if wishing to be impossibly close to him. Rhaegar didn’t want to talk anymore either, only to touch her, kiss every inch of her young, stern face, which had been burned into his memory until the end of his days. For so long he could only dream about it, and now she was here, next to him, and he could take her hand, touch her slender fingers, stroke her slightly rough palms, caress her forehead with his lips, kiss this slightly upturned self-confident nose, drink precious honeydew from her lips, red from long kisses and invitingly open for him alone.

“Where are you hiding your sword, my lady?” Rhaegar asked, breathing deeply and loudly.

“What are you talking about, my prince?” Lyanna smiled slyly. The Prince was glad to see her so light and cheerful, not burdened with thoughts too heavy for such a young girl.

Rhaegar kissed her palm tenderly and looked intently into innocent grey eyes.

“There’re blisters on your palms, Lyanna,” he grinned, “I don’t believe you have a hoop and a needle to blame for it.”

Lyanna blushed slightly and bit her lip. It was evident that she wanted to tell him something, but did not dare.

“Come on, my lady,” the Prince encouraged, continuing to cover her palm with light kisses, her skin seemed now surprisingly warm. When the Prince's lips slid to her wrist, Lyanna shuddered and drew in a noisy, choppy breath. Continuing to kiss her silky soft skin, Rhaegar did not take his gaze off her face. Lyanna's grey eyes darkened, as if a winter storm was approaching, cunning expression escaped them, leaving room for something unknown, incomprehensible, it seemed, even to herself. Her lips parted slightly with a low half-moan, half-cry, and she leaned against the wall behind her. “Admit it,” Rhaegar said jokingly, giving her a break, “I’m not your father and I will not scold you; I promise.”

“I don’t have a real sword,” light colour splashed on Lyanna’s cheeks, “only a wooden one. I exercise every day in the godswood.”

“Who teaches you?” Rhaegar asked in surprise, raising an eyebrow.

“Nobody,” Lyanna confessed, “I used to spy for certain tricks in the yard where knights usually train, but now I just repeat what I already know.”

“Without a partner, you will learn almost nothing,” Rhaegar shook his head, “perhaps when we return from Summerhall, I will ask ser Arthur to help you. What do you think?”

“Your Highness!” Lyanna’s face flushed with joy, she rose on tiptoe and touched Rhaegar's lips lightly.

“Pray tell, is that all the gratitude I deserve?” The Prince faked an offended tone, and Lyanna blushed again, which was noticeable even in the dim light of the lantern. She always flushed when Rhaegar spoke of something like that, and she herself could never mention in his presence what the noble ladies called obscene. Such shyness, however, did not ever prevent her from responding to his kisses and caresses and from examining his body most hesitantly to the extent that she allowed herself. "Come on, Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered and leaned closer to her to get his kiss, that lasted longer this time, but was just as timid and confused.

“I couldn't have dreamed of such a thing,” Lyanna said quietly, “but will ser Arthur agree? It seems he doesn’t like me.”

“Don't think about it,” Rhaegar reassured her. “Arthur is very kind, and he likes you, he just doesn't quite approve of our choice.”

“Well, I must admit, he's right,” Lyanna sighed, her face darkened again, she frowned, and the clouds covered the bright sun of her smile.

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar said confidently, “you don’t want me to make empty promises that I cannot keep, but I swear to you, I’ll do everything in my power to find a way out for us. It won’t be easy, perhaps even dangerous, perhaps I will not succeed, but, Lyanna, my beloved, I will use all my power for this.”

“I believe you, prince Rhaegar,” she put her hand on his shoulder and brushed it over abruptly, “I hope your trip to Summerhall won’t last long, because I will look forward to your return.”

“It seems that this is the first time when I already want to come back without leaving yet,” Rhaegar kissed her affectionately, calming her like a small child upset by the imminent parting with its parents. “Goodbye, Lyanna.”

“Goodbye,” she replied, and the tears which were hanging on here eyelashes like a morning dew on a grass, had rang quietly in her voice.

They shared another kiss, a long one with a bitter-salty aftertaste of the following separation and uncertainty. Lyanna was the first to push Rhaegar aside and, squeezing his hand one last time, dissipated into the darkness. The Prince stood there for a little longer, as if looking after her, but not really seeing anything, except for the blackness surrounding him, and the dim light of the lantern could not dispel it. For a while he heard the booming echo of her footsteps, but soon it disappeared too. It was strange, but with Lyanna gone it felt that everything around him seemed to get darker. The Prince took the lantern and the warmth of its flame warmed Rhaegar's hand as he turned around and strode away. His heart was heavy.

_Blood on the grass, blood on the iron steps, blood on the stone floor and on the sand. Child's head smashed against a wall_. These words haunted the Prince. They meant that hard times were coming, whether the war would start or the secret enemy would fulfil its evil intent. Rhaegar could only wonder if his blood and the blood of those he loved would be spilled as well.


	26. Jaime II

“Ser Jaime,” the clear and cheerful voice belonging to Oswell Whent made Jaime Lannister start and look around. He found himself still standing at the door of the King’s chamber, his gaze fixed on the black marble floor, on which, if looking closely, one could see light blue reflections. Jaime could not remember how long he had been here, and what had happened during this time, however, he was sure that he was awake, for his eyes were open. Probably, he was too deeply absorbed in the goings on of his mind, but he did not manage to remember the last intelligible thought.

“Come, ser Jaime,” Ser Oswell continued, “Prince Rhaegar wants to speak to you.”

"But..." Lannister wanted to object, not understanding how he could leave his post at the King's door, even if by order of the Crown Prince.

“Ser Arthur will replace you,” Whent explained.

The Sword of the Morning seemed to pop out of the thin air, making Jaime feel very strange.

“Go, Ser Jaime,” Dayne patted the knight on the shoulder and, pushing Jaime aside, stood on his place, “don't make His Highness wait.”

Young Lannister nodded absently and followed Oswell Whent with his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His brother in arms remained silent, and Jaime could only guess why the Prince had requested his presence so suddenly. But Jaime did not have to wonder about this for long, he even did not have time enough to come up with a single intelligible assumption, for very soon he already stood before the bright eyes of Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Ser Oswell, ser Jaime,” the Prince seemed to be in good spirits, and Jaime calmed down a little, making sure that he had been called here not to be berated for any offense.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat down on the edge of the book-heaped table while the knights remained standing. In addition to the table, books were placed on shelves along the walls, were thrown on chairs, and even a small pile could be found on the floor. The chamber was filled with the dusty smell of old manuscripts, familiar to young Lannister from the library in Casterly Rock, which he only visited at the request of the maester, who always threatened to complain to his father. Jaime wondered if the Prince had really read all the books that lay here, in his solar, and if so, when he had time to sleep, eat and busy himself with any other affairs.

“Thank you for coming here,” Prince Rhaegar smiled. “I need to ask you both for a favour. First, you, ser Jaime,” the Prince looked into the knight’s face, and Lannister shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, somehow feeling uncomfortable. “As you know, I am leaving the capital in the nearest time, and I would like you to look after my daughter and wife. I understand that the protection of the royal family is already part of your duties, but let me make it my special request to you,” the Prince's voice sounded stern, and despite all the outward politeness, the knight clearly heard the commanding tone.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Jaime replied fervently, “you can count on me.”

Who would suit better for protecting Cersei than he, her most loyal knight? Did Rhaegar Targaryen know that the Princess meant much more to the young Lannister than to her husband?

“Thank you,” Prince Rhaegar spoke softer now, “they are not only my family, but yours too, so I decided to ask this of you out of all the kingsguards. I hope you don't let me down; you answer for their safety with your life.”

“I will do my best,” Jaime reassured the Prince.

“I appreciate your zeal,” Prince Rhaegar nodded. “I hope, however, that everything will remain calm in my absence. Once again, please accept my most sincere gratitude, ser Jaime. That's all, you have my permission to withdraw.”

Jaime bowed and cast a curious glance at Oswell Whent before leaving. The knight wondered what task the Prince had reserved for him, probably something so secret that it was too early to trust to such a youngling as Lannister.

The steel of his armour boots rattled loudly on the floor, and to their even rhythm Jaime wondered what a funny situation he found himself in. The Prince, of course, could not even suspect what feelings the kingsguard had for his own sister. The right for such relations was exclusively with the Targaryens, who had to fight for it for a long time, and without their dragons they would hardly have succeeded. Jaime not only did not own a dragon, but he could not even hope for any exception that would allow him to count on his marriage to Cersei to be recognized. And Cersei, it seemed, even if she had the opportunity to stay with him, would prefer the Prince, who did not need her at all, to her loving brother.

Strangely, Jaime did not blame or harbour any bad feelings towards Rhaegar Targaryen. The Prince owned the only woman Jaime desired, but he could not get the one he longed for himself. The whole situation they found themselves in seemed unfair, but Lannister was not the one to change anything, so he chose to get used to his role as a lapdog, which Cersei had given him.

Jaime went outside and breathed in a lungful of damp air, which, it seemed, smelled already of the upcoming spring. Ser Arthur had sent him to rest, while he remained to guard the King himself. Jaime accepted such a generous offer with necessary dutifulness and, having changed his heavy armour for a light doublet and breeches, decided to spend several hours of rest alone. At first, he intended to pay a visit to his sister, but quickly changed his mind. After returning from Harrenhal, Cersei complained most of the time that her husband could not come to love her, and tirelessly repeated how much she hated Lyanna Stark. Jaime wanted to shake his sister and scream at her that she did not need the Prince when she had her devoted knight. However, he did not do this, but only kept silent, because he had nothing more to say.

As soon as he remembered Lyanna Stark, Jaime saw her crossing the courtyard with a quick pace heading from the godswood to the Maidenvault.

“Lyanna Stark!” He called.

The girl turned around and looked at him in surprise, but the frightened expression on her face quickly changed to good-natured one, she smiled sweetly and went up to him.

“Ser Jaime Lannister!” She announced. “Are you still bored?”

“You could say that,” Jaime grinned, “that's why I decided to draw your attention to my poor self.”

“Hmm,” lady Lyanna shrugged her shoulders, amused.

“You are one of the few not boring people in this dreary place,” Jaime confessed honestly, changing his jokey tone to a serious one. Lyanna Stark, too, seemed to have become serious, but retained a completely complacent expression.

“And you, ser Jaime, are one of the few people with whom one can discuss something else other than court gossip,” lady Lyanna told him, and Jaime gave her a smug grin. “However, do not upset me and do not be arrogant.”

“Well, you know, I’m not so good at it,” Jaime chuckled.

“I believe you with all my heart,” Lyanna Stark smiled indulgently.

“Since I still have nothing to do, and we both have reached the conclusion that you and I are ones of the few pleasant companions in this gloomy castle, then maybe you will take a walk in the garden with me?” Jaime suggested.

Lady Lyanna frowned suddenly and looked at Jaime with some sort of disapproval.

“I hope you don’t believe what they say about me at court?” She asked, folding her arms over her chest. “Because if you hope to achieve something, then...”

“No, my lady,” Jaime interrupted, “I don’t listen to idle gossip, and I’m not sent by my sister if that’s what you wanted to know. Everyone, including me, has secrets of his own, and I'm not going to dig into yours.”

“Forgive me,” Lyanna Stark managed a nervous and sad smile, “I truly thought that your sister might be involved here. I've gotten too suspicious lately. Well, let's leave our dark secrets to each other.”

If lady Lyanna found out his secret, Jaime thought, she would probably be horrified, and she certainly would not want to have a nice conversation with him anymore. Most likely, everyone whom he could call something close to the word "friend" would turn away from him, and for the rest of his life, Arthur Dayne would wish that he had never knighted Jaime Lannister, who had disgraced the honour of his house and Kingsguard. Even if Lyanna Stark was indeed Prince Rhaegar's mistress, her shame could never be compared to his own.

“I know what you mean,” Jaime agreed.

Lady Lyanna raised an eyebrow in surprise, glancing curiously at Lannister, who only shrugged and offered her his hand, but Lyanna Stark shook her head at this gesture.

“Don't be offended,” lady Lyanna said, “but I do not want our conversation to be perceived as more than just friendly.”

“So, we're friends?” Jaime winked at her.

“Friends,” Lyanna Stark agreed.

They chatted about everything: their childhood, parents, siblings, home. Listening to lady Lyanna, Jaime could not help feeling a slight sense of envy, both of them lost their mothers early, but the Starks seemed from the outside like a tightly tied family, ready to tear the throats of their enemies for each other, like true wolves, and lord Stark, judging by the stories of his daughter, was a caring and fair parent. Jaime could not say that about lord Tywin, and once again wondered how he and Cersei would have grown up if their mother had survived or they had got a different father. Unsolicited envy stung Jaime and he, frowning in displeasure, chose to change the subject.

He started speaking about weapons, said that he would like to wield a true Valyrian steel sword, but the Lannister family sword was lost even before Aegon’s conquest, when King Tommen Lannister took it with him to the ruins of Valyria, but never came back. Uncle Gerion talked all the time about going in search of the sword, but Jaime considered it a waste of time and a far too dangerous idea. In the end, the Targaryens lost Blackfyre and Dark Sister in an utterly silly way, but that did not stop them from remaining the rulers of Westeros. Lyanna Stark sympathized with Jaime and complained that her father had never allowed her to hold the legendary Ice, explaining that she would not be able to lift it.

Lannister had mentally agreed with lord Stark, as lady Lyanna, for all her swiftness and boyish agility, was short and too fragile to lift a huge two-handed sword, even if it was made of light Valyrian steel. Jaime, however, did not share that views with his companion, fearing that she might be offended. He caught himself thinking that this was the first time he had been talking with a girl for so long, and even on such a manly topic. Jaime tried to remember his usual conversations with the ladies, with the exception of Cersei, of course, and concluded that they were all oozing compliments for his beauty and courage, and the girls were looking at him always with open mouths and wide eyes. He was ever in a hurry to get rid of them as soon as possible, remaining faithful to his beloved sister. An empty, pointless exercise, as Jaime now understood.

Lyanna Stark did not awaken his feelings, did not attract him with her, as they said, wild beauty. His body remained completely calm, but Jaime did not want her to leave and continued to chat incessantly. Probably, normal young men shared such a relationship with their sisters, but Jaime was not aware of this, although his feelings towards lady Lyanna reminded him of what he felt for his younger brother Tyrion, who had brightened up Jaime's last few dull months in Casterly Rock with his jinks. It was funny, that Cersei hated them both, Lyanna Stark, and Tyrion. There was too much hatred in her, and Jaime still could not understand where it came from, because all that his sister received since her early childhood was love and adoration.

“Hey, good ser,” lady Lyanna shook his shoulder cheerfully, “what are you thinking about? I’ve asked you how good you were with a bow.”

“I... uh...” Jaime hesitated, trying to recall the topic of conversation, “I’m rather mediocre at shooting, perhaps, worse than with a sword.”

“And I hit the very target eight times out of ten,” Lyanna Stark said proudly, “I even managed to do ten out of ten several times. I tried to train a lot, but I didn't have my own bow, I had to beg my brothers for one, and they...”

“Jaime.”

Lady Lyanna's cheerful voice faltered and having fallen down suddenly, slipping like a mountain climber into an unnoticed cliff, died down. From the parallel path, through the black lines of bare branches, Cersei's eyes blazed wildly. Jaime swallowed nervously and glanced at Lyanna Stark. She looked like a warrior ready to fight: straight, frozen like an ice statue, her eyes stabbed with sharp steel, and her white fingers gripped the hem of her dress with great force.

“Jaime,” Cersei repeated, her voice empty and cold, “see me to my chambers. Do not forget that I am not only your sister, but also your princess,” she added when her brother did not budge.

Jaime blushed and pursed his lips in displeasure, Cersei's words offended and hurt him, for his sister clearly emphasized his role as an ordinary servant, no better than an errand boy. He grunted some kind of apology, but Lyanna Stark didn't seem to pay any attention to it. She continued to stare at Cersei, as if a real duel was being held between them. Contrary to the rules of decency, none of them uttered a greeting or bowed, they simply glared at each other, and no one wanted to be the first to lower her eyes.

Jaime parted the thin, thorny branches and stepped towards Cersei, taking her hand.

“Come on,” he said quietly, still feeling humiliated by his sister’s dismissive words.

Lannister nudged her lightly, forcing her to move on, but she didn't give in to him at once, still looking at Lyanna Stark, as if she could destroy her with one long glare. Cersei said nothing more to her brother, but he felt that she was held back only by the stares of the court attendants surrounding her, which would immediately be all attached to her, should she flare up now. Lewyn Martell, who stood at the gates of Maegor’s Holdfast did not even get a greeting from Cersei, and only Jaime bowed his head politely, trying to hide the tension that followed his sister like a dress tail.

“Come in,” Cersei ordered as they were at the door of her quarters. Jaime wanted to rebel, but only silently obeyed.

His sister sat down on the bed, covered with a crimson brocade blanket, while Jaime remained in the middle of the room. He expected Cersei to scream, as she always did when something was not to her liking, but instead she burst into unrestrained tears.

“Didn’t you know that I hate her?” The Princess hissed, tearing her palms trembling with anger from her reddened cheeks. “Every time I see her, I want to scratch her face, squeeze out those eyes that has so bewitched my Rhaegar. I'm pretty sure he shares a bed with her, because he refuses to do so with me. Of course, he explains this by his unwillingness to harm the child. How noble of him!”

Jaime stared at Cersei, still standing still. The need to sit down next to her, to hug her, to comfort her fought inside him with the urge to leave immediately. His love for his sister demanded tenderness and understanding from him, but jealousy forced him to slam the door loudly. Cersei's unhappy look broke his heart, but her words about her husband cut Jaime alive. Why do you need Rhaegar Targaryen, he wanted to shout to her, when you have me, who’s ready to do anything for you?

“And you, Jaime?” His sister turned to him. “Did you desire that skinny chicken too? Once you’ve claimed that you loved me, but now I see you with her. Have you moved along to an easy prey that opens her legs for anyone who asks for it?”

Jaime grimaced at the unpleasant taste of the bitterness of his sister's words in his mouth, he was disgusted. Folding his arms over his chest, he moved from his place and came close to the bed, hanging over Cersei, like a huge sharp rock, on which ships crash in a storm.

“Do you blame me?” Jaime asked angrily, trying to keep his tone even. “I was ready to give up everything for you and leave with you, but you chose to run off to King's Landing to your fancy prince. It’s not my fault that the prince turned out to be an ordinary person, it’s not my fault that he could not love you. And even after all this, I’ve quarrelled with my father, abandoned the Rock, gave up the very opportunity to have a family just to be close to you, to protect you, and instead of gratitude, I get your eternally displeased face and hear only accusations.”

“Nobody forced a white cloak on you,” Cersei bristled angrily. “It was your choice!”

“Perhaps, it was,” Jaime felt blood pounding on his temples, like a stormy sea waves beating against the rocks, “but who asked me to do this, wasn’t it you?”

“You didn't answer my question about Lyanna Stark,” Cersei snorted. He trapped her, and she did not want to admit he was right.

“If you please,” Jaime said. “So what if I spoke to her? You can't forgive Lyanna Stark because your prince is in love with her, so why is she to blame? Leave it all, forget it,” Lannister's voice became quieter, and he knelt down next to his sister, “my feelings and desires have not changed, let's leave, let's run away from here. You can take Visenya with you if you want, no one will look for us in Essos...”

“What the seven hells are you talking about, brother?” Cersei yelled, pushing him hard in the shoulder. “I carry the heir to the throne in my belly, and when he is born, Rhaegar will abandon his whore. I know that, I'm sure. He needs a son, and when I give my husband a long-awaited boy, he will crawl on his knees back to me, he will be mine.”

Cersei's eyes gleamed triumphantly, and she smiled evilly, apparently imagining her victory. Jaime was terrified by her whole appearance, but at the same time he could not take his eyes off her cold, insane beauty, which always captivated him.

“Cersei, change your mind,” he pleaded, “you’re mad. You will never be happy here, prince Rhaegar will never love you, both of you will suffer, why do you need it?”

The triumph was washed away from Cersei's face by the newly shed tears, her lips trembled slightly and parted, letting out a convulsive sob. Inflamed with anger and renewed passion, Jaime covered her lips with his own, feeling the salt of her grief and despair. Cersei put her palms on his chest, trying to push him away, but Jaime pressed her tightly to him and did not break the kiss again. His sister resisted a little more, but then she sank into his lips with unprecedented greed, as if quenching the thirst that tormented her.

She let out a long moan and bit his lip so hard that Jaime sensed a metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He let out a loud cry and jerked away, Cersei's lips spread into a wicked smile, and his blood was smeared across her chin. With rising anger Jaime squeezed her shoulders with all his might and pushed her onto the bed. He was sure her soft, milky skin would be bruised from his fingers. So be it. Breathing heavily, Jaime grabbed her wrists, and with his free hand reached under her skirts, ripping off the garters of the stockings and pulling the thin silk fabric from her slender graceful legs.

Cersei looked into his eyes, still smiling, her corsetted chest heaving heavily, and only now Jaime realized that this was just another game of his precious sister. She longed for him, wanted to belong to him no less than he wanted to possess her, but she was not going to simplify the task and started a game with him, in which the cat played with the cornered mouse. Jaime snorted and leaned over to kiss her neck, feeling her body tense and get filled with desire like a ripe peach about to fall into his arms. Another moment, and he will be able to sink his teeth into the pliable pulp, enjoying the sweet juice, dizzying like wine.

Jaime released her hands and Cersei no longer pushed him away. Not wanting to bother himself with the various clasps, he tore at the expensive dress of glittering golden silk, and enjoyed the crackle of the fabric with strange rapture.

“Don't you dare,” Cersei snapped.

“Be quiet,” Jaime told her and pressed his lips to hers again, not allowing her to say anything more. “You are mine,” he said, finally tearing himself away from her, and she did not dare to object.

The dress has become a pile of no longer useful rags, but Cersei seemed to have forgotten about it. Her fingers, trembling slightly, worked with Jaime's doublet clasps, which were soon defeated, and the doublet, and after it, a thin cotton tunic had followed the dress. Jaime's skin burned, and even the chilly air of the room could not cool it, he wanted to growl like a lion that bared its teeth at the banners of his house. With impatience, he tore off the remnants of her clothes from Cersei and finally took possession of her body.

His kisses left marks, his fingers bruised, with every movement he continued repeating "You are mine", wanting to banish all thoughts and memories of her husband from her head, with every painful touch he wanted to erase all traces of Rhaegar Targaryen from her body as if Cersei had never known this man. Jaime was not afraid that he was too harsh, Cersei, judging by her stupefied face, was definitely pleased, she wriggled under him and moaned loudly with pleasure, her nails dug deep into his back, leaving her own marks on his skin this time, and he liked it.

“I'm yours,” Jaime whispered in Cersei's ear.

“Mine,” she replied, barely breathing, and at that moment her body contracted, and the words drowned in a scream that escaped from somewhere inside her. A few moments later a wave of bliss swept over Jaime, and he drowned happily in it.

For some time, only their ragged breathing was heard in the room. Jaime felt his body start to chill, a quiet, throbbing pain waking up in deep scratches on his back. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers into his sweaty hair, gently massaging his scalp.

“You will never understand me, Jaime,” he heard his sister's quiet voice next to him, more sad than angry.

“What are you talking about?” Lannister was surprised. He continued to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling towered above him.

"I will never leave King's Landing," Cersei explained. "I will never give such a gift to Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar. If he makes me suffer, then maybe this will make him understand at least something if he suffers himself. I will not deprive my daughter of her right to the throne, I will not deprive her of her princess status and all the honours she deserves. Sometimes, when I see Rhaegar next to her, I hate this demon of a child, but when in the evening I come to see her before bed, my heart breaks with love for her. I won't run off with you Jaime, and please don't ask me to. Being my loyal kingsguard is all you can count on.”

Jaime was silent, and did not turn his head in her direction. Every word she said pulled one brick out of the tower of his dreams, which he had been building since he realized that he was in love with his sister. Her dreams were different, and he was cruelly deceived if he allowed himself to believe otherwise. What else could he do?

“Fine,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Will you be my knight?” Cersei asked. “Will you protect me?”

“Yes,” he said, “have I ever stopped doing that?”

The way her hair, exactly the same as his own, touched his shoulder, Jaime knew that Cersei was shaking her head. Her loyal knight, her loyal dog. Today she threw him a fatter bone, but this did not change the essence of their relationship. He will always trudge beside her, lagging behind just slightly, and she will give commands and pull the leash. The lion quickly turned into a dog. Jaime's chest tightened with resentment, with the desire to change everything and his own helplessness. His sister, with her stubbornness, doomed so many people to suffering, and he indulged her in this. Pathetic coward. Pathetic or in love? In his case, these were probably the same things.

Jaime finally turned his head and stared for a long time at Cersei's profile, clearly drawn against the soft light that emanated from an open window. He saw these even, regular features every day in the mirror. How much they were similar in appearance and how different in everything else. Previously, Jaime thought he understood his sister best, but a few weeks in King's Landing showed him that he was greatly mistaken. Who was this woman he loved so passionately? Now Jaime had no answer to that question.

“He will never love you,” Jaime repeated.

“Perhaps,” his sister said. “But if I can't get his love, then I can count on power. Wife of the king and mother of the heir, I will rule the Seven Kingdoms equally with my husband. I know, I'm sure of it. I need it.”

“And I’ve always needed only you,” Jaime said, but it seemed that only emptiness heard him.


	27. Rhaella II

From where Rhaella stood, only a small piece of a narrow, broken road was visible to her. It ran briskly south, crossing the Blackwater, and hid in the Kingswood, meandering between tall trees, ravines and tiny forest streams. The wood was blackened by the branches of bare trees, and the dark water of the river gleamed in the blue light of the last hour before dawn, but the Queen did not even look at all this beauty. Squinting her eyes, she fixed her gaze on the dirty yellow strip that cut across the fields of withered, trampled grass spreading along its edges.

Rhaella had climbed one of the four towers of Maegor’s Holdfast when it was still dark, wishing to see her son off this way at least. Her crown-bearing husband had forbidden Rhaella to leave the walls of this castle within a castle, where the royal family dwelled, and she did not want to worry Rhaegar too much before the long journey. The Queen knew that her son did not take her fears seriously, but he was always worried when he saw her sad, that is why Rhaella had learned to play good mood in front of him and put the sincerest smile on her face. She was ready for everything just to avoid Rhaegar quarrelling with his father on her expense and poisoning his young life with her sorrows, which was not in his power to eliminate.

Yesterday she smiled too, when her son payed a visit to say goodbye to her, and she almost did not have to pretend at that time. Rhaegar had dismissed the septa, who guarded her, and Rhaella was able to enjoy a modest meal in the company of her firstborn for the first time in many months. He was joyfully excited, like a child expecting a name day present, but he did not share the reasons for his mood with his mother. Smiling meekly, he took Rhaella's hand and said quietly:

“It hurts me to see your suffering, mother.” Determination mingled with bitterness in Rhaegar's voice. Perhaps for the very first time he suddenly spoke to her about it directly, not trying to hide the true meaning behind a wall of beautiful words, as she herself often had to do.

“I don’t suffer, my dear boy,” the Queen stroked the young man's cheek gently, showing him with only one warning glance that he should not dare to continue. In this holdfast, which had long served as Rhaella's most terrible prison, one could never speak so openly. Even though there was no one in the room now, except for the two of them, the Queen knew that in the whole Red Keep no person could be firmly sure of being truly alone.

“No, mother,” the Prince spoke softly, almost in a whisper, “before, I probably did not notice anything or did not want to notice, because it was easier for me, but now I see everything too clearly. Forgive me for being silent, it was unworthy of me. I can no longer stand aside.”

“Rhaegar,” Rhaella squeezed his hands with all her strength, which made him almost cry out, “I don’t understand what you are talking about, why are you asking for forgiveness? What are you going to do? I beg you, do not put yourself in danger, I will not survive it if something happens to you.”

The Queen could see from his face that he was up to something, but he could not or did not want to share it with his mother. Of course, with his promise of future changes, her son wanted to please her, but instead only frightened her more, and she was letting him go with a heavy heart, as always when he left her for a long time.

“I'll be careful, for your sake,” the Prince smiled affectionately, but his words didn’t calm the Queen in the least, “don’t you worry. I hope to be home by the time my little brother or sister is born.”

Putting his hand on his mother's belly, he hugged her and kissed her gently on the forehead. Rhaella wanted to weep because she could no longer keep her son with her and protect him from the dangers that threatened him, but the Queen restrained herself and only stroked her boy's hand, saying goodbye to him. She hadn't recognized that person as the old Rhaegar lately, and it frightened her. An eccentric dreamy boy, who loved books and loneliness, disappeared somewhere, giving way to a rapidly growing up young man who was desperate to find his place at his father's court.

With sweet sadness, Rhaella remembered the time when Rhaegar was a small child, and his father had not yet lost his mind. Then the Queen could go anywhere she wanted without looking back, the grief from the numerous miscarriages that had become her curse had not yet been known to her, she had yet to experience her husband's cruelty. The Prince was strangely wildish from his early childhood and almost never played with other children of the same age, and Rhaella was almost the only one whose company the boy was always happy with. Together they explored the gardens of the Red Keep, went to the Kingswood, took trips to the city. The Queen read a lot to her son. When she got tired and put the book down, an expression of the greatest disappointment emerged on the Prince's face, but he did not dare to ask her to continue, fearing to tire her. Soon Rhaegar learned to read himself and began to disappear more and more in the library, and then in the training yard. Rhaella no longer pushed him on, enjoying the rare hours they spent together. She thought that new children would come along and would require her attention and affection, but all her babies died, and Viserys was raised by another woman, a stranger full of cold.

Rhaella couldn't explain to herself what had caused such a change in her eldest son. Perhaps it had been brewing inside him for a long time, but seemed unexpected to the Queen. Was it a family of his own that Rhaegar had to take care of, his father's worsening mental health, or Lyanna Stark that had so unfortunately appeared in King's Landing?

Rhaella was puzzled by the thought of her own lady in waiting. The Queen was by no means deaf to what was said at court, even though she rarely appeared there. Rhaella did not believe that Rhaegar could insidiously seduce an innocent girl, moreover, the daughter of the Warden of the North, but she had never asked her son about it directly. Probably she was afraid of his answer. She knew, or wanted to believe, that Rhaegar's intentions were pure, but the ardent youthful love was as dizzying as good wine and could lead to the direst consequences.

Before letting go of her son, the Queen took his hand again and brought it to her cracked lips.

“Swear to me that you won't do anything reckless and that you will remember about your duty,” she said quietly and desperately.

“I swear,” Rhaegar replied firmly, “I will not do anything that can upset you.”

On this they said farewell, but her son’s parting promise did not make it any easier for the Queen. On the contrary, worrisome forebodings were a heavy burden on her heart.

Shivering from the morning cold, Rhaella wrapped herself warmer in a thick woollen shawl and pressed her hands to her belly. On the back of her head, she invariably felt the gaze of septa Venia, who stood aside, supposedly not wanting to interfere with the Queen, but the annoying presence of this laconic guard interfered with Rhaella each time she desired some privacy.

The silence trembled and hesitated, cut through by a distant rumble: it was the pounding of horse’s hooves. As soon as Rhaella heard them, four horsemen galloped out onto the road. Rhaegar rode in front in a black travelling cloak, the hood fell off his head, and the wind flapped the Prince's long silver hair, he was followed by Arthur Dayne, easily recognizable by the famous Dawn behind his back. After the Prince and the kingsguard their squires rode, whom Rhaella could no longer distinguish from that height. In the east, over the Blackwater Bay, the sun was rising. Its rays splashed on the Queen's face, forcing her to squint, but a large leaden cloud, driven by the wind, devoured a huge ball of fire, and it became so dark all around, as if morning had not come at all.

_A bad omen_ , Rhaella thought, when the road was suddenly empty, and only the prints of the hooves in the mud spoke of the riders who passed along it.

The Queen stood there a little longer, but the cold wind drove her away, and she had to seek refuge in her chambers. In her boudoir, the fire in the hearth had been started by the servants and was already crackling merrily, but Rhaella did not feel its warmth. The cold seemed to have penetrated into the very core of her bones and bound them, not wanting to let go.

“Septa Venia,” the Queen said to one of her jailers, who followed her from the tower like a shadow, “could you bring Viserys to visit me? I would like to see my son.”

“It’s impossible, Your Grace,” septa said sternly. “The prince has his studies until lunchtime. His Grace follows his schedule very closely.”

Rhaella fell silent. In fairy tales, beautiful princesses were imprisoned in the tower and were saved by noble knights. She was an aging queen, and her knight disappeared somewhere in the vast fields of Westeros. What was he doing now? Was he alive? Did he remember the princess, whose favour he once wore on his lance?

The Queen sat down in the armchair closest to the hearth, turning her back to the septa that knitted at the window. Her hand reached out to her round belly, stroking it gently. Rhaella was very much looking forward to meeting this baby and every day she offered a prayer to the Mother so that she would give her a healthy and strong child. If only Aerys didn't take it away from her as he took away Viserys. Perhaps, if it was a girl, she would be left with her mother, and, thinking about this, Rhaella begged for a daughter. Let the King be angry as much as he wants, but they will not separate her from the baby, and she will be able to receive at least a grain of that happiness that she has been deprived of for many years.

The Queen could not afford to indulge in thought for too long. Lunch with the ladies in waiting and the Princess was waiting for her in the afternoon, and at the very thought of it, Rhaella began to frown. Getting up reluctantly, the Queen asked to call for Vilma, her senior maid, to help her change. As Rhaella was waiting, she pulled an old red velvet dress embroidered with silver threads out of the closet. It was made at the time when the granddaughter of Aegon the Unlikely was preparing to give the King his first great-grandson. The folds at the hem hid the belly cleverly, making it less visible, and the neckline exposed the shoulders and accentuated the breast. Rhaella could not afford to wear such dresses for a long time, but now her condition saved her from Aerys’ cruelty, and he tormented only her soul, leaving her body alone. Within a few months, the bruises and bite marks healed, and the Queen's skin again turned white with a sickly grey tint, as if sprinkled with ash ‒ the remains of all of Rhaella's burned hopes and aspirations.

When the Queen held out the dress to Vilma, the maid looked at her mistress in surprise, but chose to remain silent, and Rhaella did not consider it necessary to explain anything. In the end, despite all the hardships she experienced, she was still a beautiful woman, delicate and graceful. The baby growing in her womb only rounded her sharp features very gently, but did not make her appear overweight. Only the silver hair, which had once been her pride, was already dry as straw for a long time, and had thinned even more, giving its last shine to a new little life. To keep them looking curvy as before, Rhaella had to style her emaciated curls into an elaborate hairdo with lots of hairpins and ribbons.

Vilma had shaken the old dust out of the dress, cleaned it and hemmed it, giving it a fresh and elegant glister, but it still smelled of something antient, like Rhaella's memories, and this smell had no desire of going anywhere. Staring at herself in the mirror, the Queen only smiled bitterly, seeing there just a withered shadow of her former self. The deep red colour burned with a bright flame against her white skin, making her sickly pallor appear more noticeable, Rhaella looked majestic and, from the outer side, seemed arrogant, but her purple eyes still remained sad, although mischievous lights leaped in them from time to time.

The Queen sighed and returned to the boudoir, where several ladies-in-waiting and Princess Cersei had already gathered to meet her at the laid-out table. Upon seeing Rhaella, they all jumped up from their seats at once.

“It is nice to see you again, Your Grace,” Cersei said in a honeyed voice, and Rhaella felt the urge to drown out the sweetness of her tone with something sour.

No matter how much she wanted to see a daughter, she was deprived of, in Rhaegar's wife, the Queen did not succeed at the slightest. She could not help but notice how the Princess was trying to flatter the King, and this made her sick, she saw that her son was unhappy with this woman, no matter how much Rhaella begged the Seven for the opposite. Did Rhaegar truly have the same fate as herself waiting for him? Rhaella never stopped telling her firstborn that he had to follow his duty, but where did duty leave her? With broken dreams, grief and regrets. The Queen adored her children, but if the Gods had granted her the opportunity to return to the past of twenty-three years ago, she would no longer hesitate to agree to the proposal of her glorious knight.

“You are so beautiful, Your Grace,” Lyanna Stark said in awe, bowing to the Queen.

Helena Mallister, who stood behind lady Lyanna, snorted in displeasure, but as she approached the Queen herself, she poured out a torrent of sweet compliments. Lyanna Stark turned pale and stepped aside. The Dornish girls Elia Martell and Ashara Dayne bowed modestly, and Joss Rosby, pushing one of the maids aside discreetly, personally retrieved a chair for the Queen. Rhaella mumbled a polite gratitude and sat down, thinking to herself that the girls were wasting their efforts, for the Queen had no true power in this castle, and her favour could not give them anything.

The conversation at the table flowed slowly and constantly froze in place, it was as difficult to maintain it as a fire in a strong wind, when sharp gusts strive to blow out a flame that barely had time to flare up. The ladies-in-waiting were gossiping, the Princess sat with her lips pursed in displeasure, the Dornish tried to insert polite comments from time to time, and Lyanna Stark stared at her plate without ever touching her food.

“Is it true that morals in Dorne are much freer than in the rest of the kingdoms?” Helena Mallister asked, giggling. The poor woman was never distinguished by intelligence or a sense of tact. With sadness, Rhaella recalled the days when the Dornish Princess, Elia's mother, and Joanna Lannister were her ladies-in-waiting, so it was always possible to keep an amusing conversation with them.

The blush on Princess Elia’s cheeks was visible to everyone, and Ashara Dayne, raising up her chin in defiance and glaring with a fiery gaze at lady Mallister's silly harmless face, said:

“I don’t understand what you mean by free morals. Perhaps we are truly less constrained by etiquette and always say what we think. Here in the capital, the truth is too painful for people, however, it should be admitted that it is sometimes very difficult for me to restrain myself.”

Helena Mallister flushed, and the Queen was about to laugh, but did not allow herself to. The corners of her lips only rose slightly, sending an approving smile to Ashara Dayne, but at the same time her stern gaze urged the Dornish girl not to venture too far.

“You’re wrong if you think that Dorne is the only kingdom with free morals,” Cersei spoke up suddenly, before Rhaella had time to be glad that the topic was over and the conversation was about to return to the usual discussion of clothes and weather, “northerners, as you are very well aware, also do not know how to properly restrain themselves,” the Princess emphasized the word "restrain" and fixed her gaze on Lyanna Stark.

Cersei did not even hide the hatred and contempt that she felt towards lady Lyanna, but before that the matter was limited only to angry looks, and now the Princess decided to take a move. A satisfied smirk played on her lips, while Lyanna Stark turned whiter than snow. All sounds in the room died down suddenly, forks with chopped pieces of spicy meat froze at the mouths, and the ladies' lips parted in surprise, waiting for further developments. All eyes full of curiosity ran from Cersei to Lyanna Stark. The ladies seemed to be spectators of the jousting tournament, and now the decisive round was about to take place.

“I don’t quite understand you, Your Highness,” Lady Lyanna said coldly, “but I find nothing wrong with speaking the truth in the face or showing my sincere feelings. In my opinion, flattery or ostentation is much eviller.”

Cersei had already opened her mouth to say something else, but Rhaella, fearing that this little squabble was about to go beyond the bounds of what is permitted, interrupted her.

“Until you took my place, princess,” the Queen's tone sounded complacent and edifying, but she looked sternly, “I strongly advise you to better study, as you put it, the morals of your subjects. This will be very helpful.”

The Princess pursed her lip and turned away, Rhaella saw her cheeks light up with an angry flame, and realized that this was the first, but far from the last outburst, and that Cersei could no longer control herself. The Queen released a barely audible sigh, trying to find a new topic for a general conversation as soon as possible. Elia Martell came to her rescue out of the blue.

“Is it always so humid in King's Landing?” The Dornish princess asked, without addressing anyone in particular. “Sometimes it seems to me that I breathe with water.”

There followed hesitant, cautious answers, and the cart of the conversation, creaking desperately, moved on, but the lunch was still spoiled, and soon, to the Queen's relief, the ladies were about to leave. Many of them, Rhaella was sure, were eagerly awaiting the opportunity to discuss what had happened as soon as it was possible.

“Lady Lyanna,” the Queen called, “could you stay and read to me?”

“With pleasure, Your Grace,” Lyanna Stark's face was filled with fear. Cersei, upon hearing the Queen's request, turned in their direction and gave her rival a triumphant gaze. Surely the Princess believed that the presumptuous lady-in-waiting was going to receive a good scolding.

“Leave us,” Rhaella told the septas. After all, sometimes she should remember whose right it was to give orders here. Both women bowed with feigned obedience and left, the Queen had no doubt that soon Aerys would know all about her arbitrariness.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lyanna Stark exclaimed, clutching her head with both hands. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“You didn’t say anything reprehensible, child,” the Queen smiled softly, “and you have nothing to apologize for. You defended yourself, which is understandable, but I would advise you to be careful, especially when dealing with the princess.”

"Yes," Lady Lyanna nodded, "I'll try to, but this...”

“It was the last straw, wasn’t it?” Rhaella asked.

Astonishment flashed across Lyanna Stark's face; she evidently did not expect the Queen to be daring enough to bring up this topic.

“I can see from the look upon your face that it’s true,” Rhaella continued, “although I do not frequent court, I know what they gossip about. I hope you will forgive me for my next question, but I cannot help but ask it. Is there some truth in this gossip?”

Lady Lyanna did not take her eyes off the Queen's face and remained silent.

“You don't want to speak up. Well, I understand. I will tell you a story, child, that happened over twenty years ago. Once upon a time there lived a princess, kind, beautiful and cheerful, as young princesses usually are. She loved her parents and her brother and lead an easy and carefree life. Once at a grand tournament she met a noble and beautiful knight and fell in love with him, so powerful were her feelings for him that she even allowed him to have her favour. Delighted with such a high honour and inspired by feelings that enflamed the knight as well as the princess, he defeated all his opponents and presented the girl with the queen of love and beauty’s laurel. No one found anything offensive in this, and only the princess and the knight knew that this laurel was not only a tribute to a person of royal blood, but a symbol of their mutual affection. The lovers continued to see each other, but their love was not destined to last long. A landed knight is not a good match for a princess, besides, the princess's father, then still the crown prince, had heard from the woods witch a prophecy that among his descendants a prince that was promised would be born, he believed in it and ordered his two children to be married. Learning that the princess was being forcefully married off to her brother, the knight asked her to run away with him. The princess, however, remained faithful to her family and duty and told the knight that she no longer loved him, and upon returning from a meeting with him, she cried for a long, long time until the tears dried up in her eyes.

“What happened to the knight?” Lyanna Stark asked thoughtfully.

“He went back home, to the riverlands,” Rhaella stammered. Her eyes stung suddenly from the rising tears. “He had never appeared in the capital again, they said, he refused to participate in tournaments and became a man of faith. The princess remained true to her husband, and she has never seen the knight since then, although she thinks of him every day.”

“This is a very sad tale.” Tears also glistened in lady Lyanna's eyes.

“This is not a fairy tale, child,” the Queen sighed heavily, “I was that princess. Now, please answer my question. But speak only the truth.”

“We love each other,” Lyanna Stark's words sounded like a challenge.

“I felt it,” Rhaella shook her head anxiously, “tell me, my son...”

“He didn’t touch me,” lady Lyanna interrupted her. “This is all false speculation. I would never do that, and he swore he wouldn't ask for anything like that.”

“That's good,” the Queen felt a little relieved.

“Do you condemn me?” Lyanna Stark looked Rhaella in the eye. Now she resembled a she-wolf more than ever, ready to rush forward to protect her pack.

“No,” the Queen shook her head, “how can I? I can only pity you, you must understand yourself that your happiness will not last long. I hoped that my son would be happier than me, but, apparently, the gods do not want this for him.”

“It’s not fair,” lady Lyanna said quietly. “I often think about how unfair it is, and I feel like crying. His Highness, the prince, he promised to come up with something, and I believed him, but at the same time I tell myself that there is nothing to wait for, and nothing can be fixed. However, he inspires me with hope, and I hope in spite of everything, although I know that when this hope is shattered into smithereens, it will be very painful.”

“There-there, child,” Rhaella went to Lyanna Stark and hugged her, “I’ve heard your father has already found you a future husband. You will get married, you will have children, and you will seek your comfort in them. And if that man turns out to be a kind person, then you may even become attached to him.”

“My probable betrothed, you’ve heard of, is greedy for wine and women's skirts,” lady Lyanna said angrily, “forgive me, Your Grace, but the more I look at you, at your sad eyes, at your seclusion, the more it becomes clear to me that I do not want that kind of life. My children will grow up and no longer need me, and I will be left alone with the approaching old age and a person whom I do not love or even worse, whom I despise. Perhaps my father gave me too much freedom in childhood, and I have forgotten how to obey, but I have grown that way and I can’t help myself.”

“You and my son, you frighten me,” the Queen said anxiously. “Please, promise me that you will be prudent.”

Lyanna Stark said nothing, Rhaella took her by the shoulders and made the girl to look straight into her eyes.

“Lady Lyanna,” she said in an almost pleading voice, “you know how dear my son is to me.”

“I can't lie to you,” Lyanna Stark whispered. “I don't know, I know nothing. I have long been confused, I live for today and do not think about the future, because I am afraid of it. Maybe you can tell me what I should do.”

Rhaella wanted to tell her that when Rhaegar returned, Lyanna should stop seeing him, should forget him. Life is not a fairy tale, and one can find another meaning to it. Rhaegar will find his purpose in serving the realm, and Lyanna in raising the children she will surely have. But these words never left the Queen's lips, drowned out by others from the past. Who was she trying to fool?

_Come with me, my princess. I know I won't be able to give you much, but I swear that with me you will be hundreds of times happier than here in this dark and terrible castle. Our love was a fairy tale, so grant it a happy ending, say yes, and we will get out of here at once!_

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Rhaella turned away.

“Go, child,” she said in a broken voice, “go.”

Lyanna Stark hesitated for a while, but did not dare to disobey, and soon the Queen heard the closing door click softly. Tired of this conversation, Rhaella sank into a chair. Tears flowed incessantly down her cheeks, and her hands stroked her belly very gently. _Forgive your old mother for weeping, sweet baby_ , Rhaella said silently, _and don't be sad_. _I am waiting for you so very much, and I will be happy when we can finally meet._

The door slammed sharply, and the Queen, thinking that it was the septa returning, hastened to wipe away her tears and close her eyes, pretending to doze. However, the swift shuffling steps were not like those of a septa or a servant, and Rhaella felt her whole body stiffen with terror.

“Are you alone?” Aerys croaked over her ear. Rhaella shuddered and sat upright in her armchair, the sour stench emanating from the King plagued her.

“Yes,” she bowed her head obediently, “with whom else should I be? The ladies-in-waiting are long gone.”

“What did you speak to Lyanna Stark about?” Aerys asked in a whisper, running his long, sharp fingernail down her cheek. It took him only to press it a little harder for a scratch to appear on her face.

Of course, the septa had already told him everything.

“She allowed herself an inappropriate remark, and I thought it necessary to draw her attention to this,” the Queen lied.

“Do not try to deceive me!” The King shrieked, and Rhaella felt his fingernail pierce her thin skin. A drop of blood crept down the white cheek, leaving a red trail behind it. “You don't need to be alone with her for this! Are you plotting too? Do you want to get rid of me? I know that you want to bring your lovers to my home without hindrance.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t understand,” Rhaella murmured, her arms wrapped around her belly, wanting to protect her child from his father’s wrath.

"That you are as messed up with the Starks as your eldest son," Aerys hissed right in her face, splashing sticky saliva on her. “I know you spoke in private with Rhaegar, and then with Lyanna Stark. Do you think I'm stupid enough not to understand it all? These northerners had specially put this girl in his bed, I know, but he would only be glad to take the throne from me as soon as possible.”

“Aerys,” the Queen begged, “please...”

“Don't you dare ask for anything,” the King snapped, showing his brown teeth, “I didn’t order you to be executed for treason right now, just because you are carrying my son. I will deal with you later, when you are free of the burden. Hopefully, unlike Rhaegar, this child doesn't inherit anything from you!”

“Aerys,” she cried out, “stop it, nobody betrayed you, there is no conspiracy...”

“Useless excuses,” the King said.

“What are you going to do with Rhaegar?” The Queen shouted, jumping up from her chair, but Aerys just grinned, not deigning to answer her. He turned abruptly and left the boudoir. The door banged loudly and Rhaella heard the key clatter in the lock. She rushed to the door, but it was no longer in her power. The Queen pulled the handle only to make sure once again that her chambers were now her prison.

“No,” she cried, “no!”

Trembling with fear and indignation, Rhaella sank powerless to the floor, her back against the door. Her eyes stared blankly into the white opening of a large window. Suddenly, a fluffy snowflake hit the glass, and then another and another. They melted immediately and dripped down like tears. The coming spring turned out to be just a mirage.


	28. Arthur V

On the night before departure, Arthur had hardly slept, tossing and turning on his narrow, rough bed in the White Sword Tower. He tried to induce the desired slumber for a long time but in vain, it chose to finally claim Arthur only in the morning, and now just the fast riding, initiated by Rhaegar, prevented Dayne from falling asleep right in the saddle. As soon as they left the city gates, the Prince kicked the sides of his stallion and rushed forward in a whirlwind, urging the others to catch up with him. Arthur, not wanting to search afterwards for Rhaegar, who was carried away by the race through the fields, started to follow rather reluctantly. The cold wind burned his face, though it cheered Dayne a little. Rising in the saddle, he slammed harder on the sides of his Dornish destrier and raced faster, riding past Rhaegar like a whistling wind. Noticing this, the Prince accepted the challenge with a smirk, and drove his beautiful Jelmio hard, but the horse was glad to have the opportunity to stretch its muscles stiff after the stall. The road mud whipped up by hooves splashed in different directions and flew to the riders' clothes and faces, however, heated by the excitement of the race, they did not pay attention to it. As far as the Kingswood, Rhaegar and Arthur rushed side by side, not allowing each other to get ahead, but, noticing the approach of the trees, they switched to a trot, and then a step, waiting for their squires.

“At least there’s something, where I outdo you,” Rhaegar grinned contentedly, brushing loose strands of silver hair from his forehead.

“I didn't know you were so conceited, Your Highness,” Dayne smiled wryly.

“I have never been accused of vanity,” the Prince said in a tone of a feigned offence, “but losing training combats to your best friend almost every day is definitely harmful to my pride.”

“I didn’t know that it hurts you so much,” Arthur played along with his friend, “otherwise I would have given in to you more often. In the end, you can take comfort in the fact that you are losing to the best swordsman of Westeros, or that you have certainly read more books than I ever would.”

Rhaegar smiled weakly and patted Dayne on the shoulder encouragingly.

“And here are our squires,” the Prince exclaimed, “we are just waiting for you!”

He pulled the reins and was the first to rush under the black dome of the forest. Bare branches, intertwining high overhead, looked like a huge great hall of some ancient ruined castle, erected by the children of the forest, who lived in these places thousands of years ago. The horse's hooves stepped softly on the carpet of fallen leaves wet with dew, and smelling of dampness and rot. Even though the trees had thrown off their cloak for the winter, the weak morning light still struggled through the dense forest ceiling, and soft semi-darkness reigned down below.

“Isn't it magical here?” Rhaegar said in fascination, looking around admiringly. The Prince turned his head from side to side with the gaze of a child, ready to start a fun game.

“Yes,” Arthur nodded, “and dangerous,” he added, remembering how he campaigned against the Kingswood Brotherhood here.

“You're right, my friend.” Rhaegar became suddenly serious. “Sometimes I forget about these things. Although the capital is now more dangerous than anywhere else.”

“That's not what I mean,” Dayne began.

“I’ve got your point,” the Prince nodded, “but you reminded me of why we’ve left King's Landing. The time of sweet dreams and sad songs is over, no matter how sad it was for me to part with it. I should have listened to you more, Arthur.”

Dayne wanted to celebrate this belated admission that he was right, but somehow, he couldn't. Rhaegar wilted and looked sadder than usual now, and it seemed to Dayne that something had broken within the Prince, as he, contrary to his own wishes, had to put aside something important, something that had previously been defining his life and way of thought.

“Do you no longer believe in your prophecy?” Dayne asked carefully.

“I do believe,” the Prince shook his head, he paused for a while, staring at the looming path ahead, and then continued quietly: “Do you know that my parents were forced into marriage for this prophecy only?”

Arthur nodded, he often heard this story at court, when he first arrived to King's Landing, and after that too. It was rumoured that after the wedding, King Jaehaerys, Rhaegar's grandfather, had ordered for Aerys and Rhaella to be locked in the bedroom until the marriage was consummated. Dayne, however, never spoke to his friend on this subject.

“Has my mother suffered in vain for so many years?” Rhaegar exclaimed, addressing not even Arthur, but wind and air, as if any of them could answer him. “Was the death of my great-grandfather Aegon and all those who passed away in Summerhall just pointless? Sometimes, when I come back there, they visit me in my dreams. Aegon the Unlikely, ser Duncan the Tall, Duncan the Small, and lady Jenny. They look at me with hope, although they should stare with condemnation, because I have done nothing for them. Nothing, Arthur! From the day I learned about the prophecy, I haven’t come to understand it better. I just wandered in a dark labyrinth of speculation, guided only by the beacon of my own stupid hope. This should end. Amazingly, Lyanna and maester Aemon told me one and the same thing... If the prophecy is true, it will come true, no matter what I do. I have pondered this for a long time, my friend, and now I believe that it is to be so. I should do what I can and not compete with the will of our gods, for the sake of the kingdom and those I love.”

“It's hard for me to imagine what had led you to such thoughts, Your Highness,” Arthur smiled, “but I'm glad.”

Somewhere above, in the interweaving of branches, a bird hooted loudly. Both, the Prince and the kingsguard, lifted their heads, and saw nothing but a swaying branch, which could have been shaken by the wind.

“We should be careful,” the Prince said, concerned.

“When will we stop for a break?” Lonmouth shouted from somewhere behind them.

“The sun has not yet had enough time to rise high, and you are already demanding a stop, Richard,” Rhaegar shook his head with feigned condemnation.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but my stomach is already twisted from hunger,” Lonmouth obeyed.

The Prince took a crust of bread from his saddlebag and handed it to Richard.

“Here,” Rhaegar smiled, “fill up your stomach, we’ll stop for a while sometime in the afternoon.”

Lonmouth’s eyes flashed hungrily and he dipped his teeth into the bread as if he were gnawing at a particularly juicy capon leg. The forest path in front of them widened and looked more like a normal road. Taking advantage of this, the Prince started at a trot, and it seemed to Arthur that he was impatient to get away from King's Landing as soon as possible.

“Watch out, Richard,” Dayne said to Lonmouth, taking a glance around before rushing after the Prince, “and you too, Willan.”

The clatter of hooves drowned out the rest of the forest sounds, warning the local inhabitants ahead of time about the approach of strangers. The squires chatted merrily about something of their own interest, probably discussing the girls they had to leave in the capital, Rhaegar seemed to enjoy freedom in the circle of trusted, amiable people, and only Arthur was worried. Perhaps, the memories of the search for the Smiling Knight and the exhausting combat with him had their effect on Arthur, and, perhaps, the instinct that was sleeping while he was still in the Red Keep awakened in a moment of worry, but Dayne wanted to leave the forest and find himself on a plain, that was clearly visible from all sides, as quick as possible. The horse, sensing the rider's excitement, snorted in displeasure, and Arthur patted it affectionately on the neck.

“Hush, boy,” he whispered, “keep quiet, there's still a long way to go.”

The wind, which had been raging from the very morning, dispersed thick thunderclouds, which were still crawling across the sky at dawn, and when the sun reached its zenith, the travellers, as Rhaegar had promised, stopped for some rest. They settled down on the wide-spread roots of an old oak, all four of them were hungry, but Lonmouth rounded upon bread, corned beef and wine with such strength that Arthur could not help laughing.

“You seem to have a bottomless barrel inside you,” Dayne said, chuckling.

“I can't help myself,” Lonmouth said, and raised his hands in confusion. Pieces of food were falling out of his full mouth.

Their rest did not last long, for Rhaegar was in a hurry to set off as soon as possible, and Arthur wondered to himself what had caused such a desire. As evening approached, the clouds returned, lower and darker, and it became even colder. Fortunately, the wind, roaring somewhere in the sky, was lost between the thick tree trunks, but even despite this, the travellers wrapped themselves in warm cloaks. Arthur felt something icy fall on his cheek, as if a dead man who had risen from his grave touched the knight's skin. Dayne took the reins in his left hand and pulled off a glove from his right to touch his cheek. His fingers groped for something wet and sharp, like crushed glass.

“Snow,” he whispered to himself, looking at the snowflake melting in warm fingers. “Your Highness, it's snowing,” Dayne shouted to Rhaegar, who rode in front of him.

“Well,” he replied, sighing, “it seems that Pycell is waiting for the white raven in vain.”

They reached the edge of the forest when darkness was already gathering over them. The snowfall intensified and now resembled a solid wall in front of them, but it melted, barely reaching the ground. Arthur and his companions were wet and frozen, Willan, no longer pretending, clattered with his teeth loudly. The lights of a small village could be seen in the distance, and Rhaegar, without thinking twice, decided to spend the night there. The travellers rode into the light, barely making out the road ahead, and in the end the horses had to slow to a step so that, tumbling upon an unsuccessfully fallen tree branch or stepping into a hole, they would not stumble and fall. The wooden blockhouse that was lit the brightest, as Arthur had suggested, turned out to be an inn. Before entering, Rhaegar turned his cloak with the three-headed Targaryen dragon inside out and tucked his long silver hair under the hood, obviously trying not to draw undue attention to himself. The squires trudged off reluctantly to settle the horses, and the Prince sent Dayne to arrange an overnight stay, while he himself remained standing in the distance.

There were many vacant rooms in such a wilderness, and after a good supper, all four retired to bed. Willan and Richard wanted to drink more ale, but Rhaegar forbade them, ordering them to go upstairs.

“I don’t need squires who cannot stand on their two feet,” the Prince said sternly.

The boys looked displeased, but no one dared argue with Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Are you afraid of something?” Arthur whispered to his friend as they climbed the stairs.

“No,” the Prince said thoughtfully, “nothing in particular, but we better stay alert.”

Arthur fell asleep to a lullaby of the howling of the wind in the chimney and the creak of old wooden boards, but the previous sleepless night and the whole day's journey had so exhausted him that this time sleep claimed him quickly. The next day the weather did not improve, although the wind calmed down a little, and the snow stopped already at night, but the sky was hopelessly covered with thick clouds, which meant that a heap of white flakes could start falling on the ground at any moment. The road, however, did not bring any adventure, except for the chill. The clothes didn't dry well enough and the skin was unpleasantly cold, but this was the kind of nuisance Dayne was willing to put up with, especially when the weather became more bearable as they moved south. Arthur would have liked to cross the Red Mountains without stopping and along the riverbed of the Torrentine to get to his own Starfall, to see Allyria, who had probably grown a lot since the time he last saw her, to chat with Admar, walk around the vast lands where he had ran barefoot as a little boy. However, now it was impossible, and Arthur chose to postpone these pleasant, but at the same time sad, dreams for later.

Only by the middle of the third day of their journey, low mountains loomed ahead. At their foot Summerhall lay in ruins ‒ the former Targaryen residence, destroyed by fire. The travellers reached the place only when the sun, still covered with a blanket of clouds, slid behind the horizon. They had hardly dismounted when Rhaegar ordered the tents to be raised while there was still some light. The Prince looked oddly tense, although it seemed to Arthur that in the place his friend loved so much, Rhaegar would become more relaxed and cheerful. When all the work was done, the Prince sent his squires to fetch brushwood for the fire, and he himself, spreading a warm cloak on a large flat stone, sat down upon it. Arthur, not knowing where to put himself, continued to stand uncertainly beside him.

“Take a seat, my friend,” Rhaegar said quietly, though Dyane expected the Prince to chase him away.

The guard settled down on a nearby stone, since there were plenty of them here. So much time has passed since the destruction of Summerhall that now it was impossible to say whether these stones were ever part of it or were they the youngest children of the mountains surrounding this place. Arthur thought the Prince would speak to him, but Rhaegar remained silent, staring at the wet rotten grass under his feet.

“Your Highness,” Arthur called cautiously, “you wanted to talk to me, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Rhaegar nodded, and for a moment it seemed to Dayne that the Prince would turn quiet again. “I think I've read more books in recent weeks than in my entire life.”

“You are exaggerating,” Arthur was grinning, but hid his smile instantly, looking at Rhaegar's serious face, “were you searching for something?”

“I was indeed,” Rhaegar confirmed, “but I hardly found anything. As it turned out, very few Targaryens before me tried to dissolve the marriage. Apparently, everyone was satisfied with their mistresses.”

“My prince!” Arthur almost jumped up from his seat, the madness implicated in the Prince's words reached him gradually, and Dayne grew cold with horror. “Are you insane? What are you talking about?”

“Despite the bad family background,” Rhaegar grimaced, “my mind is still in good health. I'm talking about wanting to end my marriage to Cersei Lannister.”

“What about children?” Arthur asked. He knew how much the Prince loved his daughter.

“Children’s rights will be presumed,” Rhaegar said confidently, “I will not allow it any other way.”

“But…” Dayne began, wondering how to explain to his friend that what he had started could never be brought to reality, “what are you going to do?”

“The family archives have preserved several petitions that Prince Daemon Targaryen sent to his brother, King Viserys. The prince asked, and sometimes even demanded, permission to dissolve his marriage with Rhea Royce, to whom he was bound for sixteen years. As you know, he was refused.”

“I don’t understand how this will help you?” Arthur remarked perplexedly. “As far as I remember, there were no children in that marriage, and the prince had a good reason to demand dissolution. As for Cersei, she regularly provides you with the heirs to the throne.”

“You're right,” Rhaegar agreed. “However, my main concern was the question of who makes the decision. I haven’t found a word about this in the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, which, I confess, look quite confused and often contradict one another, so I have to rely only on Daemon's story, because I simply have no other source of knowledge. And, according to this story, the decision rests with the king, and not anyone else.”

“You don’t think your father…” Arthur tried to object.

“No,” the Prince shook his head, “to go on with the idea, first I need to become the king myself, and this brings us back to what we talked about shortly before leaving.”

“Conspiracy?” Dayne whispered. There was no one else around except for the two of them, but the long life at the court of King Aerys Targaryen taught Arthur to be afraid to pronounce such words too loudly.

“Yes,” Rhaegar breathed out, also in a whisper.

“My prince, Tywin Lannister is your good father,” Arthur said quickly, “he supports you; he has a large host and loads of gold...”

“I cannot turn to Tywin Lannister for help,” Rhaegar interrupted his friend sharply, “if I win, I will be obliged to him, and my conscience will not allow me to set aside his daughter in that case.”

“Look,” Dyane insisted, “I understand that Cersei is a difficult person, I am myself a little suspicious of her, but she’s still in love with you, everyone can see it. Think about her feelings too.”

“Why doesn't anyone want to think about my feelings?” Rhaegar cried out, and Arthur staggered back from him in fear. Never before had he seen the Prince so flustered and angry. “All my life I was told that I owe this or that to my family, my country and my people, and I swear by the Seven that I have always followed my duty. Right now, I just want a little bit of happiness for myself, don't I deserve it, Arthur? I am not going to send Cersei to the Silent Sisters, I intend to give her complete freedom. Her son, if she gives birth to a boy, will sit on the Iron Throne, is this not what she and lord Tywin desire most? Is it really worse than for all her life to seek the love of someone who is not able to love her?”

“You're right about some things,” Dayne had to agree. “What do you intend to do?”

“As I start, you will ride to lord Stark in Winterfell with a letter from me,” Rhaegar began, calming down a little. “I cannot trust this message to a raven, and of all my few friends, I trust you the most. You will set off straight from here, while I await your return at the Griffin Roost. My father should have no doubt that I simply decided to pay respects to a friend. Jon's lands lie not far from here, and I have visited him several times, there is nothing suspicious about it.”

“Well,” Arthur sighed, “are you sure that lord Stark will not refuse you?”

“Apparently, the Warden of the North is an ambitious man, and I want to make his daughter my queen. He will be able to convince lords Arryn and Tully to support me, and, of course, I will have to promise them something in return. This is the only opportunity for me, Arthur. You probably want to tell me that my decision is too rush, and that I am looking for a way to marry Lyanna. You will be right to a certain point, I really want to do everything to marry her, but look at it from the other perspective. Tywin Lannister with all his soldiers and gold will not be able to withstand the whole kingdom. Who else beside him will take my side? The Martells are interested in Viserys on the throne, the Tyrells will not sacrifice their peace of mind, the Greyjoys sit on their islands, and they do not care about the intrigues around the throne. If I manage to enlist the support of three Great Houses at once, then a serious force will stand behind me. As for the Baratheons, I think cousin Robert is understandably too angry with me and will be even angrier. Well, what do you think?”

“You speak right,” Arthur drawled, admitting that the Prince’s words did make sense. “Tell me, do you truly love Lyanna Stark so much that you’re ready to confront so many just for her?”

“I’m ready to die for her, Arthur,” Rhaegar said sadly, “when I’m king with enough support, I can either enact a special law or use the power given to me. I intend to take good care of my subjects, and for that they are unlikely to deny happiness to their king.”

“You’re up to a dangerous game, my prince,” Dayne shook his head in concern, “but your father cannot be left in power any longer, you’re right about that. I will do whatever you ask me to.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Rhaegar smiled tightly and patted the knight on the shoulder.

“However,” Arthur said warily, “you should beware of enemies who lie hidden, about them you may know nothing.”

In response to the Prince's puzzled gaze, Dayne told him what he had learned from Varys about the laurel of winter roses.

“Did someone commit it on purpose?” Rhaegar exclaimed. It was evident from his surprised and disappointed face that he still did not fully believe that what he thought to be the omen of the gods had turned into a cruel joke schemed by someone.

“I'm sorry, but it seems to be so,” Arthur confirmed, “whoever this person is, he knows you well. Somehow, he found out about your feelings for Lyanna Stark. Perhaps you are being followed.”

“The gods laughed at me,” Rhaegar chuckled bitterly. “Well, in the end, I made the right choice. It’s time to forget about the prophecy for a while, perhaps I'll turn to it again when this is over.”

The Prince fell silent and turned away. Arthur had always considered Rhaegar's faith in the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised to be foolish, but it hurt him to see everything his friend believed in collapse so suddenly, burying the years lost in false searching. It was hard for the Prince now, but nevertheless it was for the best. When Rhaegar ascends the throne, he will be faced with much more important questions.

From the distance, they heard the cheerful voices of Willan and Richard, and soon a mountain of old broken branches was formed in front of Arthur’s eyes.

“There are almost no dry ones,” Lonmouth complained. “It will be difficult to light fire. Damn snow!”

Willan stood by, nodding in agreement.

“There won't be other ones anyway,” Arthur said, taking a flint from his saddle bag.

Dayne sent the squires away and, to keep himself busy, started lighting the fire. It turned out to be a truly difficult task. Last autumn's leaves were wet and rotten, and among the brushwood brought by the boys, there were almost no dry branches indeed. The wood soaked in water refused to burn, and the fire died out, barely having time to start.

“Damn it,” Arthur muttered, “it looks like we won't get warm today.”

Hearing Arthur’s complaints, Rhaegar seemed to wake up and stared at his friend’s torment. For a few short moments, the Prince disappeared into his tent and returned with several rolls of parchment and a candle. Rhaegar lit a candle, built a pyramid of parchment around it, and as soon as it caught fire, he began to throw branches from above, choosing those that were drier. Slowly but surely, the fire began to flare up to the indescribable joy of the others.

“Only royalty can afford to burn paper,” Dayne chuckled, holding out his frozen hands over the fire. “Where did you learn this?”

“A knight showed me this method when I served as squire,” Rhaegar explained, “however, instead of paper, he used dry moss and spruce branches, which can always be found close to the ground. Even heavy rain does not reach them.”

Delighted with the warmth, Richard and Willan sat down near the fire. Arthur warmed red wine in a copper pot, corned beef and cheese were taken out of saddlebags, and it seemed now almost tastier to everyone than the most exquisite dishes. The squires chewed, the Prince, looking more dreamy than sad, was quiet, and Dayne, not very fond of silence, began to tell the boys stories, some of which he composed himself, but most of them were the creation of Oswell Whent. Little of them were true, but Richard and Willan listened with curiosity. Rhaegar, who knew most of the glorious tales by heart, chuckled softly.

“And now,” Arthur continued, attaching a mystery tone to his voice, “a shadow, huge and frightening, crept out of the secret passage, and then the master of this shadow appeared ‒ a man, tall like a tower. In Flea Bottom he was indeed nicknamed Tower for his height, he appeared quite unexpectedly...”

“Quiet,” Rhaegar hissed suddenly and jumped up from his seat.

Arthur and the squires followed suit at once. The guard groped for the handle of Dawn. Lonmouth dashed to the horses and unfastened the bow from the saddle: the Prince’s squire shot an arrow much better than he wielded a sword. All four froze, peering into the void, and soon Arthur heard what disturbed Rhaegar: the rustle of branches being pushed aside and the crunch of dead limbs breaking underfoot. Seven came out of the nearest underbrush up to the fire. They were all dressed in leather with the breastplates of steel, light helmets adorned their heads. On their long black cloaks, the dragon of house Targaryen was puffing out red flames. Upon seeing this, Dayne didn’t know if he should have breathed a sigh of relief or worried even more.

Fingers clenched around the silver hilt, hands were ready at any moment to pull the sword from its scabbard and strike at the nearest enemy. A shadow flickered somewhere behind: it was Lonmouth with his bow that disappeared behind a high boulder. Arthur looked at Rhaegar, the Prince's face remained tense and expressionless, but his right hand was also rested on the hilt of his sword.

“In the name of King Aerys, the second of his name, the king of the Andals, the Roynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said one of the soldiers, removing his helmet. Apparently, he was the captain here. “Rhaegar Targaryen, who bears the title of Prince of Dragonstone, is accused of high treason.”

The voice of this man sounded dull and even, it lacked the solemnity that distinguished the royal heralds of the Red Keep. He hesitated several times during his speech, as if learning even such a short phrase was a difficult task for him.

“Why did you stop?” Rhaegar asked coldly. “Do continue.”

“Drop your weapon, Your Highness,” Arthur clearly heard the captain's voice falter. He was in awe of the Prince and was visibly afraid of him. Well, it only worked in their favour. “I must escort you to the capital, where you will stand before the king’s justice. Ser Arthur, you can step aside. The king knows that you have nothing to do with his son's betrayal.”

Turning to Dayne, the captain looked first at the guard himself, then at Willan, apparently trying to determine which of them was the Sword of the Morning. It was strange, that Targaryen man did not know how did ser Arthur Dayne look like, but he knew all the same that the kingsguard was here. Arthur turned to Rhaegar and met the questioning gaze of the indigo eyes. Did the Prince think Dayne would leave him like that? Perhaps now he would incur disgrace and the wrath of the King, but the Sword of Morning had promised Rhaegar to stay by his side until the end and he intended to keep that promise. Arthur closed his eyes and shook his head, the Prince smiled sadly.

“No,” Rhaegar said sharply, “I will not drop the weapon, you can only take it out of my hands when I’m dead.”

“Your Highness,” apparently, the captain did not expect resistance, “we do not want bloodshed.”

“Then leave,” Rhaegar snapped.

There was a moment of silence. The soldiers froze in indecision, their leader's hand trembled, and he lifted his helmet to put it on his head again, but he never was to end the movement. Arthur had enough time to make a decision and implement it. Dawn slipped easily from its scabbard, like a knife through a soft butter, the blade whizzed through the air, slashed at the hand that held the helmet, cutting it off, and blew off the captain's head. Fountains of dark blood gushed from the open neck, the headless body held on to its feet for a few more moments, and then, huddled as if in convulsions, collapsed to the ground, pouring blood to the grass. Six for four. It was still better that way, and if they were all so slow, then the Prince and his companions had a good chance of success.

Dayne acted so quickly that there was a moment's confusion among the soldiers, and Arthur hoped that they would run, but they recovered quickly and rushed to the ones defending themselves. It seemed that now they had finally understood who the Sword of the Morning was, for Arthur got three soldiers, Rhaegar two, and Willan only one, nobody noticed Lonmouth who was sitting in ambush. Dayne no longer saw what was happening to his friends, focusing on his opponents. Arthur could have easily overcome each of them in a face to face combat, but the three of them together prevented him from concentrating, and Dayne only dodged the downpour of blows, trying not to let any of the soldiers go behind his back. Arthur hoped that those involved in his favourite battle dance would quickly get exhausted, and he would be able to end up at least one of them, and then it would become easier. Lonmouth's arrows were whistling, and steel was ringing in his ears, sweat poured into Dayne's eyes, or was it a sudden rain? Arthur no longer felt the difference, his world was reduced to a white sword blade and the three man that surrounded him. _At least one_ , he repeated to himself, _and then it would be easier._

Arthur’s plans all went to waste, when from somewhere behind the stockade that the knight had built around himself, he heard a loud cry, which subsided immediately, as if chopped off by an axe. Against all common sense, Dayne glanced around and almost stumbled over Willan's body, sprawled on the ground. _Do not think about it now_ , Arthur ordered himself, not allowing the realization of what had happened to penetrate too deeply into his thoughts. It seemed that he hesitated far too long anyway, because only a sharp pain brought him back into reality. Hot blood ran down his forearm, and Dayne swung his sword with difficulty, but his opponent was quicker this time. If it had not been for Lonmouth's arrow, striking him right in the unprotected part of his neck, Arthur would have probably already been dead. Well done, Richard. Got it. At last.

However, the relief did not last long: the soldier who had killed Willan now took the place of his fallen companion and fought Dayne. Arthur growled in anger, battle rage overwhelmed him suddenly, and he did not know what caused it, whether it was Willan's death or the throbbing pain in his forearm. He continued to perform his dance, which he often used in training with Rhaegar, but it became more and more difficult to hold the sword. Dayne gritted his teeth, trying not to think of anything but the three figures in front of him. The red glow of the fire glittered on their armour, giving the soldiers the ominous appearance of the real ghosts of Summerhall. Continuing to go in circles, Arthur kept looking for the moment to strike, Lonmouth's arrows whistled over his head, but no longer reached their target.

Dayne narrowed his eyes, one of the opponents made a rash attempt at a strike, and Arthur thrust Dawn into his armpit. The other two soldiers hesitated, as did Dayne himself some time ago, but Arthur did not take advantage of this: he searched around for Rhaegar. The Prince had only one opponent by now, however, Rhaegar looked bad: his hair fell like pieces of rubbish on his blood-stained face, and the Prince raised his left hand constantly in order to wipe his eyes, moreover, he noticeably limped on his left leg and his movements became awkward. A little more and the enemy would overcome him.

It didn't take long for Arthur to decide. He backed up to Rhaegar and squeezed himself between him and his adversary, dragging his own opponents along. There were now three to three, but Rhaegar could barely keep himself on his feet. Dayne pushed the Prince aside, ignoring the latter's lingering protests.

“Richard,” Dayne shouted without taking his eyes off his opponents, “lead the prince away!”

“And what about you?” Lonmouth shouted back anxiously.

“Do not argue, and do what I say!” Arthur got angry.

He saw nothing more, only Rhaegar's faint objections and Richard's cursing reached his ears through the ringing of steel on steel, and then Jelmio's snorting was heard. _Help me to hold out, Warrior_ , Dayne pleaded, _let them get away_. His whole body was in pain, his hands ached with fatigue, and flies began to run before his eyes. Arthur called to the skies again, and the Warrior seemed to have heard the desperate plea of his lost son. Circling around the clearing, he found himself near the fire, and, making an unexpected twist, Arthur pushed one of the soldiers down into the flames with such a force that he fell face down into the fire. Flames blazed through the eye-slits, and a heart-breaking cry echoed over the ruins, which had not seen so many deaths since the day of the Summerhall tragedy.

_Two more_ , Arthur thought, _two more, and I can finally rest_. He tried to listen attentively to the sounds coming from behind, but he could not distinguish the rattle of hooves. Why isn't Lonmouth leaving?

One of his opponents also seemed to be struggling to continue the fight, while the other, strong and tall, did not seem to feel tired. Arthur was constantly moving, trying to find the best position and hit the smaller one, and then focus on the remaining soldier. However, as soon as he lifted the sword, several events happened all at once. Dawn struck and slammed into the short soldier's neck with all its might, but at the same instant his companion sank his blade into Dayne's side. Arthur howled in pain, the horse's hooves pounded, and Arthur’s last opponent screamed and, having dropped his sword, grabbed his head and fell: a well-aimed arrow stuck out of his eye. Lonmouth probably released it while running away.

_They made it_ , Arthur thought before the darkness swallowed him.


	29. Cersei IV

The fair smelled of roasted chestnuts, a scent that kept pace with Cersei as she walked between the colourful tents. Various jugglers, acrobats and mummers, curiosities from overseas merged into a rainbow circle, but Cersei did not pay attention to them, her target was a lone black tent on the very edge of the fair.

“Why are we going there?” Melara Hetherspoon whimpered, trailing behind.

What is Melara Hetherspoon doing here since she died years ago? Where does her frightened voice come from, for Cersei has been trying to erase it from her head for so long? Lowering her eyes, Cersei Lannister looked down at her intricately embroidered red linen dress. She wore it on the final day of a tournament organized by her father in Lannisport, ostensibly to celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys, but in fact to offer his daughter's hand to Prince Rhaegar. That dress had long faded and frayed, the lace was cut off, and now it was probably worn by some maid, happy only that she received such a generous gift from her masters.

So why is this dress on her now, rising like a dead man from the grave? Where did Melara come from? The fair around is not like those held in King's Landing, and Cersei suddenly realized that this was a dream, and she turned again into an eleven-year-old girl eager to find out her future as quick as probably possible.

"If you don't want to, you don't have to go," Cersei snorted, turning to Melara.

Melara sulked, but continued to follow her, for she always went around, clinging to Cersei, even when she did not like where her friend was heading. Fat Jeyne Farman stomped loudly behind her, her eyes, wide as two dinner plates, filled with fear. Cersei alone was sure of what she was doing. With an arrogant look, she pushed aside the people crowding her path, clearing a way for herself.

The sought-for tent stood in the distance, and there was not a single soul around it.

“It's a bad idea,” Melara wailed all over again, and Jeyne nodded in agreement.

“I’ve told you already, you can leave,” Cersei got angry and, not looking at her friends anymore, went straight to the tent.

It would have been better if they both had really ran away from here, and she herself should never have gone inside as well, but in her sleep, Cersei trembled with anticipation, and her friends, both shaking with fear, followed her. With a mistress-of-the-house gesture Cersei threw back the tent curtain and dived into the semi-darkness. The only source of light there was a tallow candle standing on a table covered with dusty velvet cloth. The yellow flame highlighted the profile of a nasty, wrinkled old woman who slept on a narrow couch.

Cersei took a few steps towards her to wake her up, but then the old woman's eyes opened all of a sudden and she sat up on the couch like a dead person rising from her stone tomb. Jeyne screeched like a slaughtered pig and jumped out of the tent, and Melara grabbed Cersei's shoulder painfully, but the latter quickly freed herself, shrieking at her friend.

“They say you can predict the future,” Cersei began cheerfully, although she felt quite uneasy herself.

“They say a lot around here,” the old woman grumbled, getting up from the couch and approaching Cersei, “it does not mean that all that is true.”

“So, can you predict my future or not?” The girl asked angrily. She thought then that this crone turned out to be another useless charlatan.

“You didn’t ask me about that,” the old woman remarked with a grin.

“I'm asking you now,” Cersei hissed, displeased with the way the alleged witch was talking to her.

“Tell me at first, what are you willing to pay?” The old woman asked.

“This,” Cersei tossed a purse of gold onto the table with a triumphant look. It landed on the frayed velvet with a clang, raising a cloud of dust around it.

“I do not need these trinkets,” the old woman shook her head, “are you ready to pay with your blood?”

“Don't, Cers,” Melara Hetherspoon squeaked, “you can't play around with blood magic.”

“I’m ready,” Cersei said firmly and held out her hand.

The old woman acted very quickly, Cersei did not even have time to take notice, as a thin needle pierced her finger. A drop of blood, as red as Dornish wine, appeared on the white skin. Maegi, as now Cersei no longer doubted that the old woman was a witch, grabbed the girl by the wrist with a dry bony hand and licked off the blood with a nasty smack. Cersei grimaced in disgust, but endured.

“Well,” she said impatiently.

“Ask questions,” the old woman croaked, “but only three, no more.”

“Didn't you see anything?” Cersei protested. She wanted to stamp her foot and make the witch do whatever the girl wished, as she did with the negligent servants back home at Casterly Rock. At home, no one would have allowed oneself to talk to her like that.

“Ask questions,” the maegi repeated.

“Fine,” Cersei radiated displeasure with her whole posture. “Will I marry the prince?”

“Yes, you will,” the old woman nodded.

Cersei felt like clapping her hands with joy. She decided that she didn't want to know anything else, but the maegi cut her off abruptly:

“Next one,” the witch said angrily. She looked at Cersei as if she knew something truly terrible about her future.

“Will we have children?” The girl obeyed. She didn’t want to admit it, but maegi’s eyes startled her.

“You’ll have two children,” said the old woman, “one true and one false.”

“What does it mean?” Cersei tried to clarify.

“Next one,” repeated the maegi. “Your last question.”

“How will I die?” The girl asked in a voice trembling with fear.

“Your death is here, in this very city,” the old woman croaked, “you will die on the Iron Throne in the arms of the one who truly loves you.”

“I don’t…” Cersei tried to argue, but the old woman no longer listened to her.

“Your time is up,” the witch said in a voice as cold as the north wind, and turned to Melara Hetherspoon.

She held out a trembling hand to the old woman, but almost pulled it back as soon as the witch brought the needle to her finger.

“Go away if you’re afraid,” the maegi snorted.

Melara closed her eyes and shook her head, letting the old woman drink her blood too.

“Your death is even closer,” the witch muttered, not letting Melara ask a single question, “he’s already breathing down your back.”

The old woman's face twisted, and she burst into a dry, vicious laugh. Cersei remembered that she rushed out of the tent upon hearing it, but now her feet seemed to be rooted to the earthen floor, and the maegi still continued to laugh right in her face. Suddenly, in the place of the old woman's face, Melara Hetherspoon's freckled face appeared, still laughing dryly, and then the wet-nurse Jayne’s, which was also replaced by the beautiful and sad face of Rhaegar Targaryen, who stared at Cersei with his owl eyes.

“Help me, Rhaegar,” Cersei whispered.

The Prince, it would seem, had only noticed her when she spoke. His handsome features twisted into a ferocious grimace, and Cersei heard the same dry laugh emanating from the Prince's mouth, but not belonging to him entirely. She screamed loudly in horror and woke up in her own bed with a shudder.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Cersei began to wipe them convulsively so that Elaine, who was soon to come, would not notice them. Catching her breath, Cersei looked around, making sure the room was completely empty. It was already morning outside, the light was making its way through the small line that remained between the two thick curtains. For a moment, Cersei thought that the room smelled of roasted chestnuts, which made her heart pound desperately, but this sensation passed quickly, and the Princess told herself to calm down at once.

She got out of bed and put on her silk robe, which cooled her sweaty skin pleasantly. Her body was still tense from the fear experienced in the dream, and she sank heavily into a chair in front of the mirror. Cersei reached for the comb and saw her fingers tremble. She pulled her hand back and pressed it to her chest, rocking it like she would a child. Cersei wanted to burst into tears again, but she forbade herself to do this: no one should know about her weakness. Tears were her weapon, not a way of admitting her own defeat.

After recovering a little, Cersei began nevertheless to comb her golden curls, but for the first moments her hands still trembled slightly, painfully tugging at her hair. The smooth, repetitive movements of the comb relaxed her, but the Princess's thoughts, no matter how much she wanted the opposite, still returned to the prophecy of the witch, nicknamed Maggie the Frog. Moreover, the old woman's predictions were coming true at least partially. Cersei truly married the Prince, bore him a daughter, and allowed herself to be entangled in a deception that would lead to the appearance of that very false child the maegi spoke about, and only now the Princess was finally convinced that the old woman really was such, and not one of the ordinary prophetesses that flooded the fairs and promised the most accurate predictions of the future.

_Why do dreams of that day and that woman scare me so?_ Cersei thought. _There is nothing frightening in her words. No one will know about the scheme, and I will die on the Iron Throne, in the arms of the one who loves me_ , she continued, smiling at her reflection in the mirror, _which means that I will become a real queen, and Rhaegar will finally love me. Me, not Lyanna Stark._

Whatever it was, she will outplay everyone, her deception will only elevate her more, and the hated Stark girl will disappear, marrying Robert Baratheon, and she, Cersei, will rule. Then, her father will recognize her merits at last and appreciate her mind. In the meantime, she received only long boring letters from lord Tywin, full of instructions on what she should and should not do. Having learned of the circumstances of Jayne's death, her father, upon his arrival at Harrenhal, had a good scolding in store for her, and, seeing tears in his daughter's eyes, he advised her to stop these tricks, because they did not work on him. When Rhaegar dared to publicly disgrace her by bestowing these damned shaggy roses on Lyanna Stark's lap, she went to lord Tywin again, hoping that at least now he would come to her defence. She longed for decisive action, but only another disappointment awaited her.

“A man has a right to have paramours,” her father said dryly in response to the prolonged complaints, “that shouldn't concern you. Your job is to make sure that his bastards do not threaten your children, otherwise let him have fun as he desires.”

“But he insulted me,” Cersei squealed.

“I won't forget that,” her father replied shortly, “but you shouldn't throw a fit over every skirt that your husband runs after.”

“But father!” Cersei was about to burst with anger.

“And don’t try to touch Lyanna Stark,” Lord Tywin threatened her. “You have already shown that you are no good. I will no longer trust you with anything important.”

“But nobody knew,” Cersei said fairly. The secret of Jayne's death remained a mystery.

“If only they knew,” her father tore his eyes from the papers, which he had carefully studied before. Distinctive Lannister emeralds were frozen with cold, “you would have ruined the cause for which I gave most of my life. Rhaegar is just waiting to get rid of you. Frankly, I would have caused an accident, but the prince is too noble for that. Do not compromise yourself in front of him, do not irritate the king and do not give them a reason to suspect you of anything. I hope you can at least do that.”

Lord Tywin said nothing more to her, and then his letters started to come to her, full of disregard for her intelligence and talents. Cersei would have preferred to send them into the fire at once, but the damned Pycell reported her actions to her father constantly, and losing the help of the Grand Maester now meant arranging her own downfall. Let her wait, when she becomes queen, they all get what they deserve, even lord Tywin, but first she will make him admit how wrong he was. Cersei closed her eyes blissfully as she imagined the throne room doors swinging open in front of her, and the herald in his clear voice announcing her appearance to the waiting courtiers.

The door creaked softly and the Princess's privacy was broken by Elaine. The girl slid inside like a mouse, wishing the Princess good morning in a deafly heard tone, she began to prepare the dress Cersei intended to wear. Over the course of several months, Elaine had changed a lot, turning from a tame fox into a gray mouse, which was rescued from a mousetrap by a lioness and made her slave. Every day, the poor thing thought that the lioness was about to devour her. Cersei let out a mock sigh. But Elaine is silent and will remain silent.

When she was done with combing her hair, Cersei stood up and gestured for the girl to come closer. Elaine assisted the Princess with putting on a silk undergarment that caressed Cersei's sophisticated skin pleasantly, and after that strapped a small pad to her belly. This piece, designed by maester Pycell, was made from a canvas by Elaine herself and stuffed with fluff, the seams were made in such a way that over time a new patch or two could be placed in, adding more fluff and successfully depicting the growth of the pregnant woman's belly.

Cersei put her hand against the rough cloth and pressed hard, her fingers falling in only slightly. Nice work, but the Princess felt sick every time she touched this screaming proof of her own inferiority. When Pycell just told her that Visenya would remain her only child forever, Cersei did not believe him at first simply because she considered it impossible. She was healthy and full of strength, of course, and nothing could prevent her from giving the Prince many more children. Pycell's silly proclamations was unfortunately heard by Jayne and Elaine. Poor Jayne had to pay with her life for Cersei's assurance that rumors would not spread throughout the Red Keep. Elaine was intimidated to such an extent that now she could hardly speak even with her mistress.

At that time Rhaegar was not carried away by his northern whore and visited Cersei’s bed at night, and the Princess struggled with every effort to make him do it more often. Cersei wanted to prove to herself that everything the Grand Maester said was just nonsense, but as time went on, nothing happened, and doubts began to creep into Cersei's mind. The first time she admitted the thought that her womb was truly dead, she woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. In the dark corners of Cersei's bedroom, she saw assassins, sent for her by the Mad King, who somehow discovered her secret. Who would need a barren princess unable to give the world another dragon? Cersei got it into her head that if the truth became known, she would certainly be killed. How scared she was when she found out that her secret had gone beyond her little circle of Pycell and Elaine. The man who stunned her with his knowledge promised not to tell anyone and sympathized with her, but Cersei no longer believed in other people's sympathy, especially inside the Red Keep.

For a while, she carried on with her hope, believing that it was worth continuing to try, but Rhaegar crossed all her dreams out, choosing Lyanna Stark as the Queen of love and beauty. It was impossible to wait any longer, and Cersei agreed to the proposed deception, which, if ever revealed, would cost her her head.

_I will be queen_ , Cersei repeated her prayer, _two predictions have already come true, and the third will do so as well._

“Do you have something to tell me?” The Princess asked Elaine coldly.

The maid looked at Cersei in dismay and shrugged absentmindedly. She spoke only if she was directly asked.

“Hmm,” the Princess pursed her lips in displeasure, “do they really not gossip in the kitchen or in the servants’ room?”

“It's all nothing,” Elaine tried to brush it off, her face tense. One might think that the servant was focused on her work.

“Careful!” Cersei screamed as the girl tightened her corset lacing way too much.

“Beg pardon,” Elaine muttered, and the Princess felt the girl’s hands shake.

“Have you seen the queen's maid?” Cersei asked curiously. This topic occupied her mind lately, for Rhaella had not left her chambers for several days and had not shown herself to anyone at court. The Princess suspected that her good mother had lost the king’s child again, and for some reason they were trying to hide it. Well, that’s for the best. There was never a very warm relationship between the Queen and the Princess, however, the way Rhaella took Lyanna Stark’s side so openly, had constructed a wall between them that was thicker, taller and icier than the one in the far North. Cersei hoped that the hated northern girl received at least a worthy scolding, but the Princess was already flared up by the fact that the Queen chose to criticize Cersei’s behavior in public, while Lyanna Stark was summoned to a private conversation. At the mere recollection of this, hatred began to seethe in Cersei's very heart. Well, the Queen was right. Soon the Stark girl will get what she deserves.

“Wilma?” Elaine clarified, but Cersei did not remember the names of the servants and just shrugged her shoulders.

“How do I know?” She snorted. “I mean a tall, sour girl.”

“This is Wilma,” Elaine repeated. “Yes, I saw her.”

“Did she tell you anything?” Cersei was getting annoyed at having to ask new questions all the time.

“No,” Elaine shook her head, “and she forbade us to chat about it. Some of the servants say that the king fears for the health of the child and forbade the queen to leave the bed.”

Nothing of interest and, in general, looks like Aerys with his constant search for danger where there is none. Let him deal with his own wife, and not pay attention to his good daughter. As soon as he found out about Cersei's little secret, everything would be over for the Lannisters. The Princess would prefer now to follow the long-standing advice of her husband and sail to Dragonstone, away from Aerys, but Pycell could not go with her, and the maester down there wouldn’t wait to reveal the truth for the world.

“What about the king?” Cersei asked in a mock indifference.

“They say little about him, you know it yourself,” Elaine's voice faltered, became even quieter. She was even more afraid of Aerys than of her own mistress. “On my way here, I’ve heard him shouting at someone very loudly again and promising to burn him. This man appears not to have executed an important king’s order.”

"As usual," Cersei snorted. In his madness, Aerys became rather predictable.

Elaine did not answer, and the Princess saw disagreement in her silence. Surely, she pities the unfortunate victim of the King’s mood swings. Cersei did not care, as long as the King did not touch her, and she did everything necessary to achieve this.

“Have you heard anything about my husband?” Cersei asked another question as the maid straightened her dress, the same scarlet as in her dream today, but made of fine and warm wool. It had been sleet coming from the sky for about a week in the capital, leaving behind only puddles and mud.

“No, His Highness didn’t send word,” Elaine muttered, although she knew perfectly well that the Princess was referring to the rumors about her husband and Lyanna Stark. The castle servants were good suppliers of gossip of this nature, although most of it was too much an exaggeration.

“Surely he only writes to his Lyanna,” Cersei could not resist, spitting out the name of the northern girl like a gnawed chicken-bone.

Elaine remained silent, and Cersei's anger could only boil inside her, inflaming her more and more. Her spite dripped like blood down the blade of a sword with all drops gathering on its tip. She despised so many, but as soon as she imagined this blade in her hands, she could clearly see that its point was directed towards Lyanna Stark's heart.

_Maybe she won't leave on her own_ _will_ , Cersei thought, _maybe I should get rid of her, regardless of my father's words. Perhaps her head should be the first step that will lead me to the throne._

“You are dismissed,” the Princess snapped at Elaine, and she disappeared as quietly as she entered the chamber.

After having breakfast all alone, Cersei headed to the nursery. As soon as she opened the door, a loud cry rang in her ears, and the Princess experienced a sudden and acute attack of fright, like a dagger piercing her stomach.

“What happened?” She asked, her voice sounded unusually sharp and high. “Is the girl healthy?”

“‘Ealthy, Your ‘Ighness,” the wet-nurse smiled. With Visenya in her arms, she paced the room, trying to calm the child. “The Lord Maester came in the mornin’ and said that it was her teethin’ again.”

_Lord Maester_ , Cersei snorted to herself, _what's there in this moron’s head?_ However, the Princess was extremely relieved to be convinced that her daughter was well. From endless screams her temples began to throb, but Cersei approached Keera and reached out to hold Visenya. The wet-nurse grinned sweetly as she passed the child into the arms of her mother.

It seemed that the girl had inherited her voice from her father, her high notes made Cersei squint and grimace in displeasure. She understood that the child, in all likelihood, was experiencing discomfort or even pain, but she could not bring herself to endure this incessant cry for a long time, which only harassed and angered her, which made Cersei often leave the nursery with a feeling of unimaginable fatigue and headache.

“Come on,” she said to her daughter, “stop crying. Please.”

At her words, however, Visenya roared even harder. Her green eyes studied her mother's face, and her forehead frowned in displeasure. The girl could not speak yet, but her eyes had already quite a grown-up stare, and the way her daughter looked at her, for some reason, frightened Cersei.

“When ‘Is ‘Ighness was ‘ere, ‘e could always calm ‘er down,” the wet-nurse said suddenly, “and now then ‘e’s gone, I cannot find a proper consolation for the little princess.”

Cersei gave Keera a disgruntled look, thus frightening the girl and making her fall silent immediately. Surely, the daughter would look at her mother like that, when the only person she wanted to see was her sweet father. So sweet that he got himself a whore behind his lawful wife’s back. But he loves his daughter so much, to babysit her and sing his songs to her, it's so wonderful! Cersei suddenly wanted to scream so loud that the glass in the castle windows would break. Not only did the Queen betray her, but even her own child preferred her father to her. They both loved each other so much, but neither of them ever considered to love Cersei.

Anger seethed in her again, the Princess thrust the child to the scared nurse and, gritting her teeth, jumped away. Nobody likes her, nobody needs her. Jaime emerged in her thoughts, as she always turned to him for consolation, but the picture of his sweet conversation with Lyanna Stark surfaced before her eyes at once. Even her loyal knight betrayed her, though he swore to protect her. However, she had no choice, and Cersei went to look for her brother, hoping to find at least a drop of solace in his arms.

She found Jaime at the King's chambers. He was alone and looked tired and serious. The hallway around him was empty. Now, with the departure of Rhaegar and the retirement of the Queen, only the kingsguards could be found in the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast.

“What happened?” He asked worriedly, glancing back at the door.

“I feel awful, Jaime,” Cersei muttered, letting out a tear that was more sincere than usual this time. “Help me.”

“I can't,” Jaime said in confusion, again casting an anxious look at the King’s door, “I'm alone here, and I am under king’s orders.”

“I knew it,” Cersei squealed. “You're only good when you build castles in the sky, and when I ask you for help, you refuse me! Coward!”

“Cersei, please keep your voice down,” Jaime muttered. His brow furrowed and his face flushed. Still, her words touched him, although he did not want to show it, “do you want the king to destroy me? Destroy both of us? Then I can no longer help you!”

He grabbed her hands in his, apparently trying to calm her down, but Cersei did not want to. Her brother was no better than her husband, no better than her daughter; he also abandoned her.

“Let go,” she snorted, pulling her hands out of his grasp, “I’m done with it, I don’t need your help anymore!”

Cersei ran away, pulling up the hem of her dress. Her footsteps echoed in empty space. She wondered if Lyanna Stark came to him in distress, would he also drive her away? This thought was unpleasant, hatred fluttered like a black bird in her chest, oozed from pores of her skin and poured out in uninvited tears.

_I will be queen_ , Cersei thought, _I will sit on the Iron Throne._ However, these thoughts did not stop the tears that flowed and flowed down her cheeks like winter rain. _They will all answer for their betrayal, I will not forget anyone, they can be sure, I will not allow them to neglect me, turn away from me, not love me!_

“Your Highness!”

As soon as she reached the door leading to her chambers, she was called after as if from nowhere. Cersei raised her eyes to meet Lucerys Velaryon's dark purple gaze. He looked at her with his head tilted slightly.

“What is wrong?” He asked sympathetically.

Cersei's lips twitched. Since Jaime didn’t want to listen to her woes, why not open up to the master of ships. After all, he has never betrayed her trust, proving that he was absolutely and completely on her side. However, instead of comprehensive words, only convulsive sobs escaped Cersei's mouth.

“You are terribly upset, Your Highness,” Velaryon came closer and gently took her by the elbow, “let's go inside the room, the servants shouldn’t see you in such a state.”

He pushed her inward and led her to a chair, and the Princess fell down in it at once. Velaryon took a jar of wine from the table and filled two goblets. Master of ships brought one to Cersei, who clung to it as if instead of wine it contained a potion that could save her from all her troubles.

“Drink,” Velaryon encouraged her, and Cersei took a few large gulps, “you will feel better and you will tell me what happened to you. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Perhaps,” Cersei muttered, setting the goblet aside and wiping away her tears. Perhaps he really could help her in what she now desired more than anything else.

The Princess sensed the smell of roasted chestnuts again.


	30. Rhaegar V

Consciousness returned to Rhaegar gradually, he felt like he was walking under the arches of a dark cave which supposedly lead to a long-awaited exit to the surface. The sense of his own frame and the sense of touch were the first to come back to him, and the Prince felt heaviness in his body, a wet blade of grass that tickled his thumb, a dull pain, which he could not yet locate. The wind chilled his face, his clothes were damp, soaked with morning dew or drops of rain and blood, and from his neck down to his toes he was covered with something warm, most likely his own cloak. Learning to feel again, Rhaegar started to hear, the sound of the wind in the tree branches and the rustle of grass reached his ears, Jelmio was snoring softly somewhere close to his side.

The Prince felt like a child who was about to be born, he had to fight desperately in order to return to the reality again. Deciding that he had already come to his senses enough, Rhaegar tried to open his eyes, but could not do so due to dried blood over his eye-lids. The Prince tried to move his fingers, and although they were numb, they obeyed him. Delighted with his success, Rhaegar began to carefully raise his hand, and, bending it at the elbow, touched his face and started to clean the clotted blood from his eyelashes. The Prince's joints seemed to creak like rusty door hinges, and in all he resembled an old rickety house. As soon as Rhaegar began to move, his muscles ached pitifully, and his hand trembled treacherously. The feeling of heaviness in his body intensified even more, and the pain with long, slow strokes pulsed in his left thigh, his face stung. The Prince's fingers began to gently touch his cheeks and forehead, though found nothing but a bloody crust.

“Your Highness,” Richard Lonmouth's voice said from somewhere in the darkness. Rhaegar thought he was hearing his squire through a thick wall.

The Prince licked his dry and chapped lips and tried to speak, but instead of words, a dry wheeze escaped his throat, and Rhaegar coughed, feeling that the attempt to open his lips caused a sharp bout of pain in his entire face, which, having bitten him quite hard, released him from its claws in a moment. A cold, wet cloth touched his eyelids, and Rhaegar tried to push it away, but someone grabbed his wrist, forcing him to lie still.

“Don't move, my prince,” Lonmouth muttered, and his voice trembled, “now I will remove the remaining blood from your face. I tried to do it yesterday, but I couldn't see anything in the dark. The gods have been merciful to you, eyes and mouth are not hurt.”

What is he talking about? Rhaegar wanted to question him, but another attempt to open his lips made his left cheek whine again with pain piercing it. The Prince crumpled and felt immediately the same sharp pain on the right side of his forehead. He had to force myself to relax and stop moving.

“Try to open your eyes,” Richard said carefully.

This time, Rhaegar's eyelids flew up after a little effort, but the bright light rushing into his eyes made him squint, and he hissed again in pain, which seemed to be caused by any attempt to use the muscles of his face. For the second time, the Prince opened his eyes slowly, gradually letting light and colour into his world. At first, he saw only a blurry picture, most of which was occupied by the head of Richard Lonmouth. Rhaegar wanted to grin, but remembered in time that it was better not to. The Prince blinked several times, and soon Lonmouth was no longer just a huge blot. Rhaegar saw his mouth open in anticipation and eyes wide with excitement. The squire's face was smeared with mud, but there seemed to be no blood anywhere.

“How bad am I?” Rhaegar croaked, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

“You have a deep wound in your left thigh and a terrible cut all over your face,” said Lonmouth pitifully. “There was so much blood that it covered all your clothes.”

“This bad, then,” the Prince stated, trying not to think about the fact that he certainly will not be considered handsome any longer. He remembered how the blood pouring from his forehead covered his eyes and prevented him from fighting, but he could not quite recall when he received this cut. The main thing was now to take good care about the leg, in order not to remain a liming and incapable cripple, “are you injured?”

“No,” Lonmouth denied, his thick hair shaking.

The Prince spoke below his breath, and his squire had to put his ear to the Prince’s mouth almost literally.

“Fine,” Rhaegar breathed, “where are Willan and ser Arthur?”

Richard averted his eyes guiltily, and the Prince became worried. During the battle, he hardly looked at his friends, for all his attention was concentrated on his opponents. Rhaegar remembered only how Arthur, dragging the Prince aside from the heart of the fight, demanded that Richard should take him away immediately, remembered how he tried to resist, all the rest was utterly covered with blanket of darkness. Arthur followed them, did he not?

“Willan is dead,” Lonmouth said, swallowing noisily, “and ser Arthur, he… he continued to fight. When leaving, I shot at his opponent and, it seemed then, hit the target, I thought ser Arthur would come after us, but he did not. I have been waiting for him for a very long time.”

“Why didn't you come back?” Rhaegar exclaimed too loudly and sharply, and received for that another wave of pain.

“I couldn't leave you,” Richard muttered. “I didn't know if someone would be looking for you. And your wounds also required tending to them. I had to sacrifice my shirt, there was nothing better that I could use.”

“Thank you, Richard.” The Prince fumbled for a thick, clumsy bandage on his leg. "Is there water nearby?"

"Yes," Longmouth nodded.

“Bring me something to drink, please,” Rhaegar said, cursing his helplessness, “and then go back there. You must find out what happened to Arthur. If there is anything left of our belongings, collect all you can take away, especially food and wine.”

Longmouth fled to carry out his errands, and the Prince, tired of such a long speech, closed his eyes. The wound on his face hurt unpleasantly, and as he touched it, Rhaegar felt fresh blood. The cut has not yet had time to heal completely, and he was already chatting with Richard in full swing. The Prince could not do anything about that, however.

Richard brought some water from a nearby stream carrying it in his hands, the water was cool and unusually tasty, but drinking from Lonmouth's hands was uncomfortable and shameful. Rhaegar could not endure this for long and sent the squire away. Richard clearly did not want to leave him, but was forced to obey. Riding a not too happy Jelmio, he dashed away.

Rhaegar turned his head slowly, trying to look around. Richard took them further into the foothills of the mountains, there was more stone and less greenery, the Prince lay in a small clearing, and several trees grew nearby, lower and thinner than those that surrounded the ashes of Summerhall. The seven soldiers would not have been able to hide here, nor would a prince with a squire and a horse. They needed to leave and leave soon. If the King decided to get to his son, then he will not stop now.

Rhaegar remembered how easily his father had allowed him to leave for Summerhall. Had this terrible plan already been formed within the ill mind of the Mad King? Should these soldiers have escorted him to the capital or simply killed him? The Prince, no matter how painful it was to realize, was inclined to the latter option, otherwise Aerys would have thrown him in prison in King's Landing. The King's mind has long been damaged, turning him into a cruel tyrant, greedy for blood and violence, but Rhaegar never thought that Aerys would come as far as to kill his own son, spill dragon blood. This madman, resembling more a beggar from the Flea Bottom than a king, was not his father. The man who read stories of dragons to small Rhaegar had disappeared somewhere, giving way to a wild monster.

Was Aerys planning to kill his heir himself? Or had this thought been poured into his head like a touch of poison into a goblet of wine? Rhaegar remembered Arthur’s words about someone at court playing against the Prince, about someone who had him provoked into this whole incident with a laurel. Who it could be Rhaegar did not know, among Aerys’ attendants he had more enemies than friends, but did they all really want to get rid of the Prince or were they just afraid of the King? The Red Keep is a box of snakes, and you could never know which one is most poisonous.

What is going on there now? How is his mother, his little Visenya, beloved Lyanna? Rhaegar could only hope that ser Jaime and ser Oswell would keep their promises and take care of his family. Feeling the urgent need to do at least something, the Prince tried to stand up, putting his weight only on his good right leg so as not to disturb the wound. Blood trickled down his face again, but Rhaegar ignored it. Having got out from under the warm cloak, he put his hands on the ground and was trying to get on his feet, and in that exact state the returned Lonmouth found him. The Prince's squire was riding Jelmio, three more horses he brought with him obediently trailed behind.

“Your Highness,” he cried in horror, “lie down immediately!”

Richard jumped off the horse which was heavy loaded with bags and rushed as fast as he could towards the Prince. He grabbed Rhaegar under his armpits and helped him to lie down again, the Prince heard his teeth grinding against each other.

“Well,” Rhaegar asked, breathing hard and fast, “what have you found?”

“Everything is the same, as we have left it, Your Highness, horses, food supplies,” Lonmouth said, “even the tents are intact, I took everything I could from there,” he nodded towards the wagging horses, “so we’re going to be fine. All the grass there is covered with blood, like a small Redgrass Field.”

_The grass is smeared with blood_ , Rhaegar repeated to himself. _Blood on the grass, blood on the iron steps, blood on the stone floor and on the sand. Child's head smashed against a wall._ Are the dreams of that mysterious crannogman really starting to come true? This means that this is not the last bloodshed, so something must be done immediately to try and stop this terrible wheel of death.

“Your Highness,” Richard shook the Prince by the shoulder gently, “can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Rhaegar nodded absently, in fact, he was so deep in thought that he did not hear anything at all, “no. What’ve you said?”

“I said, I’ve counted seven corpses, we killed all of them, Your Highness,” Richard blinked quickly and turned away, “I dragged Willan’s body aside and covered it with fallen leaves. We'll have to go back and retrieve his bones.”

“Of course,” Rhaegar agreed, “and what about ser Arthur?” The Prince dreaded to ask that question from the very moment he saw his friend's black destrier among the other horses brought along by Lonmouth.

“I didn't find him,” Richard spread his hands. “I swear, I searched all the surrounding bushes, examined the ruins, but did not find a single trace.”

In any case, it gave hope, ghostly, barely perceptible hope, but Rhaegar could not help but cling to it.

“We must go back,” he said firmly, “to look for him, to find him alive or dead.”

“But how?” Lonmouth flung up his arms. “You can't stand on your two feet! What’s more, your father's men can come back there at any moment!”

“He’s my friend, Richard,” Rhaegar said quietly, by this time he was almost used to the pain that bit him as soon as the Prince opened his mouth, “I hope you understand what that means.”

Gritting his teeth, Rhaegar tried to get up again, but Richard grabbed his arms and leaned on him, forcing him to lie still.

“Take it easy,” Lonmouth cried, “stop playing the hero! Why do you want to die? Do you want to deprive all of us of the last hope, leaving the country to your mad father? You have to understand at last that you cannot, you have no right to dispose of your life so irresponsibly! Ser Arthur knew this well enough, so he ordered me to save you.”

Having shouted enough, Richard, continuing to have a hold on Rhaegar, burst into tears.

"Well, well, that's it," Rhaegar muttered. The squire now reminded him of his younger brother, who often cried the same way when he was very frightened or in pain. Apparently, Richard was terribly scared yesterday, and returning to the scene of the battle only disturbed bloody memories. Rhaegar was pretty scared himself, as he had to kill a man for the first time in his life. One could swing a training sword as much as one liked, one could become a good tournament fighter, but no one can ever be ready for the scene when life leaves the human body, life taken with one’s own hands.

Ser Willem Darry was right. He repeated many times to young Rhaegar that one should not think it over, one should not hesitate a single moment. It looked like the Prince turned out to be a bad student. As soon as the red bubbles of blood, along with a death rattle, escaped the enemy's throat, as soon as he fell to his knees and then collapsed to the ground, Rhaegar could not take his eyes off him. The Prince seemed to be covered with frost, turning into an ice statue, and only the pain in his thigh awakened him, making him realize again where he was. He was incredibly lucky, if his second opponent had not dodged at that time from Lonmouth's arrow, Rhaegar might have already been dead.

“Richard, let me be,” Rhaegar demanded.

Lonmouth unclenched his hands and sat down next to the Prince, looking him over with a guilty look.

“Not in every kingdom squires are allowed to shout at their princes, you can count yourself very lucky,” Rhaegar grinned and hissed immediately in pain, “you’re right, now I’m not good for anything. Did you bring wine?”

Richard nodded curtly.

“You have to light a fire and boil it,” the Prince continued, “and then pour it over my wounds. Got it?”

“I did,” Lonmouth agreed obediently.

“Can you do it?” Rhaegar looked at him sternly, but at the same time friendly. He did not dare to smile anymore.

“I can.”

Before starting up a fire, Richard brought the Prince a pot full of water, which Rhaegar pounced immediately on with indescribable greed. The water softened the dry throat pleasantly and refreshed numb mind. The Prince felt better after having finished the bowl. On his hands, he crawled to the nearest tree and sat down, leaning against a thin trunk. Lonmouth scampered busily through the clearing, gathering everything he needed for the fire. Richard was a boy as simple as a copper coin, albeit from an old noble house, however, now, in his sincere words he was right, and Rhaegar felt ashamed that he tried to do otherwise. Now the Prince should take care of the kingdom, otherwise ser Arthur sacrificed himself in vain, and Rhaegar behaved like he tried to throw away such a truly generous gift.

The day was as grey and chilly as the previous ones, although the skies remained dry for the time being, sparing Rhaegar and his devoted squire. The Prince sat on a warm horse blanket, but dampness was beginning to penetrate through it. Rhaegar pulled the cloak under his chin, feeling a slight chill. This worried Rhaegar a little. His wounds were not fatal, but here in the forest, where the nearest maester was tens of miles away, he could easily fall prey to fever, and poor Richard could do nothing to help him.

The Prince touched his forehead with his fingers and it seemed hot to Rhaegar, or were his hands so cold? The Prince closed his eyes, feeling the heavy weight in his head. Through a wood of bushy eyelashes, perhaps too lush for a youth, Rhaegar caught sight of Lonmouth’s figure looming before him. The Prince released a half-groan, half-roar, but he was not going to give up on what was planned. He was no longer a child that he could afford to shed tears on his mother's skirts, he was a warrior, too bad a warrior, but at least he must learn to endure pain.

The bandage made by Richard adhered to the skin along with the woollen fabric of the breeches, and the wound had to be soaked in water for quite a long time so as not to pull the bandage away with the flesh. They cut a long hole on the breeches with the Prince's dagger, and Richard, barely daring to look, washed the wound with water, getting rid of the clamming dirt and remaining pieces of tissue. Rhaegar saw the squire's hands shake, and his face acquire an earthy grey colour. The Prince himself gritted his teeth until they squeaked, trying to make up a confident look in order to cheer up Richard.

Rhaegar washed his face thoroughly and wiped it dry, the wound still pinched, and there were vague blood stains on the tissue. The Prince hoped that over the next night, the cut on his face would at least heal a little, and he would be able to speak freely.

“Are you ready?” Lonmouth asked uncertainly.

"Ready," Rhaegar nodded decisively, "are you?"

“I'm ready too,” the squire assured the Prince.

Rhaegar did not even know which of the two of them was less ready.

The wine was boiling in the pot over the fire. Lonmouth took the bowl and, having momentarily stiffened, gave the Prince a long look. It seemed that he would gladly engage in mortal combat with a bunch of sellswords instead of tending to the wounds.

“The sooner you do it, Richard,” Rhaegar said, “the sooner you can be relieved. I don't take too much pleasure either.”

The Prince turned to his side so that the wound on his thigh was easier to reach. He wanted to close his eyes, but he continued to stare at Lonmouth with a calm, cold gaze. The waiting for pain was exhausting. In battle, one could get a blow at any moment, but the need to defeat the enemy, throw him down in order to survive, dulls the pain and allows one to stay on one’s feet for a long time. Now Rhaegar felt nothing but a throbbing wound, he heard Richard's agitated breathing and smelled hot wine.

Lonmouth came closer, squinting and holding his gaze with difficulty.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he muttered, apologizing either for the sudden weakness or for the pain he was going to cause.

A boiling red liquid poured out of the pot, and at the very instant it touched Rhaegar's skin, he screamed, forgetting all his determination. Richard was scared by this sudden outcry, his hands trembled, and some of the wine spilled past, burning the healthy part of the leg.

“May the Others take you!” Rhaegar shouted, ready to howl in pain.

“I didn't mean to, my prince.” Lonmouth’s face looked so guilty that the Prince felt ashamed. In the end, he frightened the poor boy himself, and Richard was truly fussing over him like a nanny.

“Fine,” Rhaegar said, “let's continue.”

After a short agony, the wound was again tied with a linen cloth, which was once Prince's undershirt, now torn into shreds. Rhaegar, breathing heavily, closed his eyes and tried to rest a little. The disturbed thigh ached, pain flared brightly in it, forcing Rhaegar to squint and sniff, but gradually these flashes became fainter, fading away like a smouldering fire.

Richard washed carefully away the newly reappeared blood from the Prince's face, but none of them dared to pour boiling wine also there.

“You should speak less,” Lonmouth complained.

Rhaegar tried to smile with only his eyes, but, apparently, it turned out badly, because a puzzled expression froze on Richard's face, and he, with a bewildered shrug, busied himself with their modest lunch.

The Prince wrapped himself tighter in his cloak, for the chill did not let him be. Rhaegar felt tired and overwhelmed, but he had no time to rest, they had already spent too much time here, and it was impossible to stay longer. The sun was still obscured by clouds, but the Prince guessed by the amount of light that the day had already passed its middle. They had to hit the road soon.

Rhaegar barely ate anything, only drank a few sips of wine and stuffed a piece of corned beef into his mouth, sucking it like candy. This was enough to kill his hunger a little, and the Prince did not want more, even though Lonmouth was chewing too mouth-wateringly next to him. The food and wine did not bring him pleasure, Rhaegar wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep, but he did not allow himself to. Sitting in complete silence, the Prince waited for Richard to part with the last piece of bread and said quietly:

“Get ready.”

“Get ready?” Lonmouth was alarmed. “Are we leaving? But what about you? You are so pale, Your Highness.”

“We need to get out of here before dark,” the Prince caught himself on the fact that his voice was refusing him, besides, Rhaegar tried to bother the wound on his face as little as possible, “they will be looking for us, there is no doubt about that.”

“Can you ride?” Richard asked worriedly.

"I have no choice," Rhaegar shook his head. "You will tie me to a horse in case I pass out suddenly."

“Where are we heading?” Lonmouth inquired curiously.

“To Griffin Roost,” Rhaegar replied. “Jon must help me.”

Richard nodded, his lips twitching, but he bit them, turned away and, standing up, proceeded obediently to collect all their things.

“You wanted to ask something else?” Rhaegar called out to him.

“Yes,” Lonmouth hesitated, “if I am allowed...”

“You saved my life, Richard,” the Prince reminded him sadly. “I know I can trust you.”

“What do you intend to do next?” Lonmouth blurted out, apparently, this question was of a particular interest for him.

“I intend to become king,” Rhaegar said shortly.

“What do you have in mind?” Richard’s face however clearly showed that he understood everything perfectly.

“I mean exactly what I said,” the Prince nodded, confirming his squire's assumptions. “Will you stay with me, Richard, when I ask you to go against your king?”

“My sword is yours,” Lonmouth swore.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar whispered, “Sometimes I cannot understand why you, my friends, are doing this, but I'm grateful to you all, though I don't deserve it.”

“You think too low of yourself,” Richard muttered and turned away.

“I would not agree with you,” Rhaegar closed his eyes, “but it is hard and painful for me to talk. Get ready, Richard, you must get us to Griffin Roost. We will resume all the talking later.”

Rhaegar pulled his cloak even tighter, feeling a slight shivering in his body. A dull aching pain tightened on his head, like a narrow crown. It seemed to the Prince that someone was tapping at his temples with small hammers. He touched the injured thigh, and it felt that the wound had become hot. It was a bad sign, and Rhaegar could only hope that they would get to Connington’s keep in time, and the maester there could still help him. The possibility of his own imminent death did not bother the Prince, but he was horrified at what could happen to those whom he left in the Red Keep. The delusioned mind produced terrible images of fire and blood, which caused Rhaegar's heart race in fear. He saw his mother tormented by Aerys, streams of blood trickled down her pale skin, and her eyes looked with a plea for salvation, he saw Visenya’s breathless body painted blue by death, the smile had disappeared forever from her face, he saw Lyanna drowning in the fire, calling out his name. Rhaegar ran to them, but every time he was late, and he could only weep over the lifeless corpses, not holding back sobs.

“It's time, Your Highness.” Lonmouth shook him gently by the shoulder, pulling the Prince out of the row of terrible images he was living in his head.

Rhaegar opened his eyes abruptly and felt that he was all sweating, beads of sweat dropped down his forehead, burning the wound unpleasantly.

“Already?” Rhaegar was surprised, it seemed, he fell asleep a moment ago.

Richard nodded. With the help of his faithful squire, the Prince got to his feet, but he immediately felt dizzy and almost fell again. He had to stand for a while, grabbing a tree and waiting for his body to get used to the vertical position again. It was impossible to lean on his injured leg, for as soon as Rhaegar stepped on it, all the muscles from the hip to the tips of his toes were pierced with such a pain, that it felt as if a new blow had been struck at the wound with a sword.

“Wait,” the Prince whispered as Richard was already leading him to the horse. With difficulty, Rhaegar reached out to the puddle left by the recent rain, scooped up a handful of dirt and smeared it over his matted hair. “No one should recognize me,” he explained to the astonished Lonmouth. “Turn my cloak inside out, please.”

The Prince had to reach Jelmio jumping on one right leg with Richard’s support, and then he climbed into the saddle as if he was doing it for the first time in his life. Lonmouth laughed, but, catching Rhaegar's stern gaze, fell silent. He tied the Prince to the saddle with ropes, straightened his cloak so that the three-headed Targaryen dragon was not visible, and Rhaegar grabbed the saddle horn with all his might and was ready to howl from helplessness.

Richard jumped on his filly, and they started off. The sky began to darken, but they still had some time to get away far enough. In the end, they could ride at night if need be.

_If only we could make it_ , Rhaegar thought before the morbid sleep overcame him.


	31. The Great Vassal

The lord kept looking up into the sky of King's Landing, as if hoping to see the raven he had been expecting, but outside the window there was only wet heavy snow. It turned the courtyards and passages of the Red Keep into a collection of puddles, and the servants scurrying around the keep jumped quite deftly over them. There could be no slip-ups: seven against four, two of whom were green squires, and one a prince who fought only in the training yard. Arthur Dayne and his Dawn were good, but he could not kill seven alone. The assignment was certainly fulfilled and, perhaps, only the news of this was delayed a little.

The King was grumblingly impatient, he demanded an answer, but the lord could not provide it. Yesterday evening, after talking with the King, he sent another party to Summerhall, which meant that news could not be expected earlier than in three days. The lord sat down on a hard, uncomfortable chair and rubbed tiredly at his temples, Aerys' croaking voice still ringing in his ears as soon as the lord closed his eyes. The King screamed, splashing saliva and spreading a stench around him. Aerys promised to burn him, the blackened eyes of the King sparkled, and in an instant, it seemed to the lord that he was indeed being dragged to the pyre. However, Aerys still calmed down a little and showed distant glimpses of reason, which occurred sometimes even in such a state, like short warm days which delighted at times the late autumn. Nevertheless, just as the onset of winter was inevitable, so the King's mind would sooner or later drown in its madness. Now Aerys had told the lord to figure out what to do next and, with an evil snort, sent him away.

The lord pondered. His thinking, however, went badly, but some ideas nevertheless stirred in his head. Perhaps he could please both the King and the Princess at the same time. This plan should have been carefully considered, but all thoughts inevitably returned to Daella and to the baby at her breast. Fortunately, the boy took after his mother, his head was covered with the silver hair of old Valyria, and he looked at the world with dark purple eyes. Daella had named the baby Daemon, but the lord knew that the boy would not have to bear that name for long. The baby could not speak yet, his gaze had not yet become truly conscious, and a serious game was already being played for his right to sit on the Iron Throne.

One of the kingsguards, prince Lewyn Martell, was Dornish and had brought with him into King's Landing a game of cyvasse ‒ a new game which had only recently arrived to Dorne from the Free Cities. The lord, watching, as it sometimes happened, at the matches played on gaming boards, only grinned softly. He had his own pieces, and he played his own game, which was more complicated and dangerous, where a wrong move meant not just defeat, but inevitable death. The King was a weak piece, but at the same time unpredictable, he moved around the board wherever he pleased, devouring everyone who stood on his way, however, it was easy enough to destroy him, the main thing was to stay away from the King and not let him burn you. The Prince was stronger, but he moved straight, each of his moves could be foreseen in advance and at the right time he could be thrown off the board, which was almost achieved at this time. Lords were smart, they could destroy both the King and the Prince, but only if they united in an alliance, but they were slow and only moved one cell forward. Only one of them was truly dangerous in the game ‒ a lion that roars, showing everyone his strength. His moves were precisely calculated and unknown to anyone, even creating strong alliances, he played only for himself, and he could win, but this cannot be allowed. It is necessary to use his power, and then destroy him, throw him away, then and only then the final victory is achieved.

“His Grace demands you to come to him,” the lord's reflections were interrupted by the low voice of ser Jonothor Darry.

Again? Apparently, the King is too worried. The lord was tired of acting out a mummery in front of the King, but it was impossible to refuse. Hopefully Aerys would not start threatening him with pyre again. The lord glanced over at ser Jonothor, but the knight's face was expressionless. With the same face he looked at the king’s executions, with the same face he conducted courteous conversations with the ladies in waiting. The ideal candidate for the kingsguard, who, it seemed, would never desire anything that was not his immediate duty.

The lord rose, nodded politely to ser Jonothor, and followed him. Already approaching Maegor's Holdfast, he spotted Princess Cersei. She greeted him with a smile, but he only bowed coldly. Who knows what Darry will think and what Darry will tell, having noticed something more than mere politeness required by etiquette between them? The lord was known for openly opposing the Crown Prince, it would be very unusual if he became friends with his wife.

“What news can you tell me, hmm?” the King squeaked dryly, shifting restlessly in his chair. It was obvious that his long nails were getting in his way, but Aerys had preferred to endure this inconvenience for several years now instead of letting any barber near him.

“Nothing, I'm afraid, Your Grace,” the lord said. Continuing to stand with his head bowed obediently, he tried to make out the King's face and the expression in his eyes. Aerys was to be watched as the weather at sea. Calm easily turned into a storm, which threatened to smash the strongest ships to pieces.

“You said that these men are reliable,” Aerys hissed, blubbers appeared at the corners of his mouth, and the lord imagined his family dagger, that he had given to Darry before entering the King’s chambers, cutting through the madman’s throat. Now this could not be allowed, as he still was in need of Aerys, but soon, very soon, the King and his entire house would end.

“Yes, and I preserve that opinion,” the lord said respectfully.

“However, you still have nothing to say to me.” Long nails grated against the wooden arms of the chair.

“Your Grace, perhaps…” the lord tried to explain again.

“The raven is lost? I heard that before,” Aerys' thick silver eyebrows moved above the bridge of his nose, and now the King looked more like an old ragged raven than a dragon that was breathing fire from the Targaryen sigil.

“I’ve sent a search party there,” the lord added.

“Well, at least you’ve found enough reason for that! What are we going to do if they don't find anyone?” Lifting his head, Aerys pierced the lord with his eyes dark as the Smoking Sea of Valyria.

“Your Grace,” the lord began cautiously, “I have one idea that you might like.”

“To find out whether I like it or not,” the King said impatiently, “you must first express it. Go on!”

“If prince Rhaegar,” the lord swallowed hard and loud, “managed to escape, then, most likely, he will hide in a castle belonging to one of his friends, and then we will not be able to get him there without an open confrontation, which Your Grace wants to avoid…”

“Yes, yes,” Aerys interrupted, waving his hands, “all this is clear to me, continue!”

“We need the prince to come back here on his own free will,” the lord began to speak a tone lower, “and we have what is dear to him. If he finds out that his daughter is in danger, he will ride to King’s Landing immediately.”

“No,” the King hit the table with his fist, “you can't touch the girl.”

“But Your Grace,” the lord objected, “she is the daughter of a traitor, and she stinks of a lion pound. You said so yourself, Your Grace. The girl has bad blood.”

He could almost hear the thin ice, on which he was now walking, crushing under his feet. When madness gripped the King, he was dangerous, but he was no less dangerous when his mental illness, as now, receded a little. At such moments it seemed that he was about to be horrified himself at what he said and did, but such repentance never came.

“No,” the King repeated, “I said no. This woman, Felicia, will take care of her upbringing. She will marry the boy who will be born to the queen. Or even Viserys, if we can get rid of the Martells. Dragon blood can no longer be blended with the blood less superior. It cannot,” Aerys said in a tone that indicated that another cloud had come over his mind. “Only true Targaryens can ride dragons.”

The lord chose not to remind the King that dragons had not been seen for over a century.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said humbly, the lord foresaw that Aerys could reject this first offer, so he was ready to get another one out of his sleeve, “then what do you say about Lyanna Stark?”

“The Starks?” The King winced, as if he had forgotten that two of Rickard Stark’s children were in his castle. “Traitors, they must be executed. Executed immediately. Destroyed.” Aerys worried and grabbed the armrests of his chair again. His eyes darted anxiously like a pair of dark beads. It was to be feared that an explosion might soon follow.

“But Your Grace,” the lord said calmly, “we can make much better use of the Stark girl than to just kill her. The girl must be sent down to the dungeon. Everyone knows that she is Rhaegar's mistress, and he will certainly come running to save her, there is no doubt about that.”

“Yes, yes,” the King nodded, and then, as if coming to his senses, said: “Bring her father here first. If the girl disappears, I do not want him to come under my walls with an army.”

“No,” the lord shook his head, how hard it was to wander through the maze of confused royal consciousness and interpret almost every word for him, “we will not touch lord Rickard, in our position this is not permissible. When the disappearance of the Stark girl becomes known, we will blame the Prince for everything, we will spread the rumour that he abducted her and took her away to no one knows where. Everyone saw the Prince expressing his affection for this girl at the tourney at Harrenhal...”

“And Tywin,” the King put in suddenly, “you should have seen his sour face! Even I couldn't have come up with a better idea, ha-ha, I was proud of Rhaegar then!”

“Your son is a traitor,” the lord reminded the King sternly, “the Stark girl seduced him and dragged him into a conspiracy against the crown.”

“Yes, traitor,” Aerys repeated thoughtlessly, “traitor. What we were talking about? Oh yes! The Starks. Bring the Warden of the North here to the Red Keep.”

The lord wanted to take a deep breath, but he held it back. Without betraying his calm courteous expression of the old maester, who was explaining numbers to the small children, the lord began to point his reasoning out again:

“Lord Rickard is in Winterfell, it’s a long and long way to get there, but we must act now. You wanted to end this as quickly as possible yourself. If the word reaches us that Prince Rhaegar has managed to escape, we must send the Stark girl to the dungeon, then he will immediately come here to save her.”

“All right,” the King agreed.

“Am I allowed to withdraw?” The lord asked.

“Leave”, again, Aerys lost interest in everything that was happening around him and, turning away, stared out the window. The lord followed his gaze and saw Prince Viserys running around the courtyard. His nanny, lady Felicia, tried to catch him up and calm the young prince, but the boy was speedier than she would ever be. The King looked at this with his expression not changing, as if his face was suffering a spasm. For his relatively young age, Aerys looked like a very old man. What is he thinking now, what is happening within the thoughts of this madman who voluntarily agreed to kill his eldest son and heir? The lord felt something close to pity, but that feeling quickly receded. He turned his back on the King and left the room. Taking back his weapon from Jonothor Darry, the lord hastened to leave Maegor's Holdfast.

His thoughts returned to Daella again. He could not write to her openly, fearing that his letters might be read. Loyal to the Lannisters, Pycell was only aware of small part within the lord's intricate game. The Lannisters saw only one small piece of the huge panel and the King ‒ completely different one. The whole picture was fully accessible only to the lord himself and to Daella, all other pieces on the gameboard will have to be sacrificed sooner or later. The lord did not pity the mad king, his arrogant youngest son, or his stupid and quarrelsome good-daughter and her overly smug father; rather on the contrary, he even thought that he would enjoy getting rid of them. Prince Rhaegar was nothing to the lord at all, this youth should have continued to strum the stings of his harp and compose songs, he was totally unfit for the ruling. The reign of the Red Dragons was coming to an end. Years of endless marriages between siblings had made the Targaryens nothing but a pitiful likeness of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. The time has come for a new blood, stronger, retaining the greatness of the dragon lords of Old Valyria.

To Rhaella ‒ a wife to an unworthy husband and a mother to unworthy sons, Lyanna Stark, who turned out to be entangled in this by pure chance, and to little Visenya the lord did not want any evil, but they all had to fall, for, without knowing anything about it, they stood in his way. His conscience was ready to accept this burden with ease, for he will be rewarded for this by Daella's smile. Perhaps when he throws all the Seven Kingdoms at the feet of her son, she will truly accept him, allowing him to stay by her side and share the remaining days for both of them. The lord would have given everything and more just for this.

He spent the night restlessly, and in the morning, he woke up broken, his head felt heavy, as if filled with molten iron. The sky was still grey and empty, although the lord did not expect to receive any news today. Nevertheless, his feet brought him to the rookery, where he met Pycell. The Grand Maester tied the message to the raven's paw. When he saw the lord, his hands trembled, and he hastened to release the bird as soon as possible.

“Secrets, Grand Maester?” The lord smiled.

Pycell turned pale, and his small eyes darted cautiously. The old man did not know how to hide his emotions, and the lord realized immediately that he was hiding something.

“Nothing special,” the Grand Maester tried to put on an expression of confident lightness, but he had already given himself away enough that this attempt would not be successful. “A letter to the Citadel. Business as usual, perfectly ordinary. What brings you here? Want to send a message?”

“No,” the lord muttered, “I was looking for you.”

“I am at your disposal,” Pycell said ingratiatingly, “what do you want to talk about?”

“About the Princess,” the lord replied shortly, “will you accompany me to a walk in the garden? I'm afraid these walls have too many ears to trust them with such important discussions.”

By the way Pycell's watery eyes twitched to the side, he was not at all eager to talk to the lord about any matter. This conversation, however, was to take place, and the lord intended to carry it out, since Pycell was so unlucky as to catch his attention.

“Well, if you please,” the Grand Maester muttered through closed thin lips. Pycell glanced towards the spacious window through which he had released the raven, as if he was afraid that the bird had not flown away.

The lord gave him a suspicious look, turned away and left. They went downstairs, meeting no one but a few servants. The blades of the training knights sparkled in the courtyard, but without ser Arthur Dayne, the training did not seem so exiting. The Sword of the Morning also had to be sacrificed. It was a shame he was so loyal to Prince Rhaegar. The lord would have been glad to see such a valiant and skilful knight in the service of the new king.

The keep’s garden was empty, except for Lyanna Stark, who was wandering there alone. However, having noticed the presence of strangers, she hastened to leave. Wild girl, strange girl. With some effort, she could even be called beautiful, but not like Princess Cersei. While Cersei was exactly the one who would look perfect as an adornment next to the king, Lyanna Stark looked more like a fairground dancer, bright and inviting, challenging. It was surprising that a young man as quiet and melancholy as Prince Rhaegar would be so in love with her.

“What did you want to discuss?” Pycell reminded of his presence impatiently.

“Soon the princess will have to be taken from King's Landing, as you well understand yourself,” the lord began, “otherwise our little secret can easily cease to be such.”

“Lord Tywin offers to take her to Casterly Rock,” Pycell said. It looked like he had this answer prepared in advance. “And then you will come there and...”

"Hush," the lord squeezed the maester's bony shoulder, "don't say more than necessary. I'm afraid Casterly Rock is out of the question. Aerys will never let her go there, and we don't want to raise suspicion, do we?”

“But...” Pycell tried to argue, apparently carrying out the order of his patron.

“Don't object,” the lord answered sternly, “or do you want the king to march his army there? The safest way is to send her to me. The king trusts me and will not suspect anything, and I will think of a proper excuse. There is still plenty of time for that, but I need to start talking to the king now. You have to help me to convince him.”

“But…” the Grand Maester repeated, “I must first obtain Lord Tywin's consent.”

“No need,” the lord objected and almost laughed at how flushed Pycell was from the strain, “I offer you the only possible solution. Do you want to succeed or lose everything and destroy House Lannister?”

“You’re wrong if you think that House Lannister is so easy to destroy.” The Grand Maester ruffled up like a rooster and shook his white beard, as long as the one of King Aerys.

“Easy indeed”, the lord grinned, “trust me. It takes only to summon another maester to the court and tell the king about Princess Cersei’s condition. I won’t count that there would be anything left of the House Lannister after that.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?” Pycell huffed.

“No,” the lord shook his head, “I merely refute your statement. I'm sorry that you mistake an ordinary argument for a threat.”

Pycell could not find an answer. It seemed that his thin grey hair would now begin to smoke from the strain that his equally thin brains were experiencing. Of course, Tywin Lannister would not like the lord's offer, he would gladly execute the plan in his castle, surrounded by his loyal men, and the maester would have to pay dearly for such a concession on his part. However, now Pycell had nothing to use as a proper argument, he was firmly pressed against the wall with no way to escape.

“Come on, Grand Maester,” the lord called in a polite, mocking tone, “what made you think so?”

“I must write to lord Tywin,” Pycell tried to stand his ground.

“We have no time,” the lord shook his head again.

“You said recently yourself that we have enough,” Pycell was indignant.

“I did,” the lord confirmed, “but you evidently did not listen to me well enough. We will need this time to persuade the king. Do not anticipate that he will so easily agree to send his good daughter with a round belly somewhere far from the capital. You should make up your mind.”

“Fine,” Pycell looked dazed, but the lord had no pity for him. He was just another part of the great picture, small, almost insignificant. Then it can be easily crushed with a heavy soldier's heel and split into tiny pieces.

“Then I will talk about it with the king at the first opportunity,” the lord switched to a business-like tone. “But I need your help. You must confirm to the king that such measures will be helpful. Will you do it?” Menace flashed like steel in his voice.

“I will,” Pycell nodded shortly, he was clearly not happy with the answer.

“Thank you,” the lord smiled, “cheer up, Grand Maester, we are working for a common cause, for the good of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“With your permission, I will leave you,” Pycell said, “good day.”

When the maester was gone, the lord snorted with satisfaction. Playing with Pycell was easy, even boring. The old man was quick to be scared and not too smart, but smarter perhaps than Princess Cersei. Well, the Lord was incredibly lucky that the king drove Tywin Lannister out of the capital, otherwise it would have been much more difficult.

The news, which the lord had so eagerly awaited, arrived only four days later, dispelling the last hopes. Apparently, there was a skirmish between the sellswords and the prince. All the sellswords were killed, and of the Rhaegar’s men, only one body was found of a squire boy named Willan, he served the Sword of the Morning. As for Arthur Dayne himself, he, like Prince Rhaegar and Richard Lonmouth, seemed to evaporate. They tried to hide Willan's body, and horses and food supplies disappeared from the place of the combat. This clearly indicated that the remaining three had escaped. The party sent out by the lord to search for them, found nothing. The day before their arrival at the site, a heavy rain fell there, destroying all possible traces for good, if they ever were in place. Upon some reflection, the lord sent a response message, ordering to search the nearby villages and roads which led to Griffin Roost. Jon Connington was the only one in the area whom the Prince could ask for help.

The lord sighed. Now he had to go to the King with bad news, and take on himself the heavy torrents of his anger, falling like a fast mountain stream and knocking everyone down. However, there was no point in delaying that.

Entering the semi-dark solar of the King, the lord tried to keep his back straight. Involuntarily, he touched his waist with his fingers, trying to locate the missing dagger there. In the far corner, the lord noticed the squat shadow of the pyromancer Rossart, who spent more and more time in the King’s company, continuing to fuel Aerys' already bright passion for fire.

“Your Grace,” the lord bowed, “I have come to report to you on the task that you’ve recently entrusted upon me.”

“Report then,” the King snapped displeased.

The lord glanced uncertainly towards the pyromancer, and Aerys caught that glance.

“I have no secrets from my devoted servants,” the King narrowed his eyes. “Speak and waste no more of my time.”

The lord doubted the correctness of such a decision, but did not argue with Aerys, especially in the presence of Rossart. He had to explain everything as it is, even knowing that the pyromancer will hear all of it.

“I knew it,” the King croaked, as soon as the lord finished speaking, “stupidity and irresponsibility! I am surrounded by stupidity and irresponsibility!”

“Now, Your Grace,” the lord said, trying to ignore Aerys’ accusations, “we need to do what we agreed upon a few days ago.”

“Of course,” the King snorted, “now that you've failed! You were incapable of the simplest thing! You disappointed me,” Aerys shook his head, “disappointed indeed!”

Rossart stirred in the corner, but remained silent.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the lord tried to look ashamed, “this will not happen again.”

“If it happens again,” the King laughed dryly, “then you will also find yourself in the courtyard, tied to one of these pyres,” he waved his hands towards the window.

"Will you give an order about Lyanna Stark?" the lord specified.

“This no longer concerns you,” the King said angrily, having already forgotten that the idea itself belonged to the lord, “everything will be done as it should be. Leave.”

“Your Grace...” it was dangerous to start that topic now, and hoping for a positive answer was completely reckless, but the lord needed to plant the seeds of the thoughts he desired in the unstable mind of the King, let Aerys get used to them, accept them, and make in the future the choice towards right decision.

“What else?” Aerys croaked.

“I suppose Princess Cersei could be taken out of here for some time, for example, she could stay in my castle,” the lord suggested cautiously.

“The entire royal family will remain in the capital,” the king snapped.

“But lord Tywin can side with the prince, isn't it better…” The lord did not raise his head, but even so he felt the waves of King’s anger.

“No, not better!” Aerys shouted. “Didn’t I make it clear enough that it’s none of your business? Get out and bother me no more.”


	32. Brandon III

The ink had not yet dried, and the neatly drawn letters gleamed in the candlelight that lit Brandon's bedchamber. He glanced again at the narrow, straight lines, as if it was not him who had written them. The Brandon from a few months ago would never allow himself this, but the Brandon of today did it with a strange ease. This decision cost him dear, he pondered over it constantly, going on a horse ride with his sister, training in the yard with Albyn, or lying in Elia’s tender and gentle embrace.

Brandon dusted the parchment with sand to keep the ink from flowing and read it over again. The short text seemed to be full of condemnation, but Brandon dismissed the thought. The point of no return had not yet been reached: while the raven with the letter had not yet flapped its black wings and left the Red Keep, rushing to the North, this message, dangerously changing too much, could still be thrown into the fire.

_Dearest Father,_

_I hope my letter finds you and my dear brothers in good health. I swear by the old gods, I would not want to disturb your peace, but I am afraid I will have to do so, because I cannot and do not wish to do otherwise._

_I beg you, Father, to break off my betrothal to lady Catelyn Tully. I do not love her and I can hardly ever become the husband she dreams of. Perhaps it is due to a long-standing betrothal, that lady Catelyn became convinced that she loved me, but she has no idea how wrong she is. If she is ever to be my wife, she will be unhappy, and I want to protect both her and myself from this. I'm sure lord Hoster will be able to find her a worthy spouse among his bannermen, or considers an alliance with the Arryns, marrying her off to Elbert, my friend and a much more suitable man. Upon receiving your consent, I am ready to speak with Lord Hoster myself and accept his just accusations._

_I understand that by losing the opportunity of this marriage, you may lose your loyal ally, however, you will gain a new one ‒ the Dornish Princess, for I intend to ask for the hand of Princess Elia Martell. Do not try to dissuade me from that step, for I will not give up on it. You can deprive me of all my rights including the right to inherit Winterfell in the future, and even that will not change my mind. I believe Eddard will become a worthy Warden of the North when he grows up a little. Of the four of us, he has always been the most sensible, and who can take care of our people better than he?_

_I believed that my feelings for Princess Elia were just a game, and that I, like an overgrown child, clung to its old toys, not wanting to fulfil my adult responsibilities. However, over time, my attitude towards her has changed a lot, and now I cannot part with this woman for a moment. If I do not have her, then I do not need anything or anyone else. From what I have heard about you and my mother, I am inclined to think that you loved her dearly and thus you should understand my feelings. Imagine that you would have been forced to marry another woman who meant a little more than nothing to you. Would you not have tried to do something about it?_

_I am aware that after reading this letter, you may not want to see me again. Well, I will have no choice but to accept this, however, I will remain unshakable in my decision, although it will hurt me to know that I will never see you again and will not be able to come back to my home._

_As for the instructions you gave me when my sister and I left Winterfell, I have to admit that I failed miserably. Eavesdropping and intrigue is as alien to me as the embroidery of septa Jenna’s favourite pastoral scenes is alien to Lyanna. Perhaps you should think about it. Perhaps this is just not for us, and we should only try and rule the North wisely, remembering about the King, only when time comes to send the collected taxes to the capital? I decided for myself that I no longer wish to participate in this. Your decision remains with you, but I would not like you to climb into this tangle of snakes, that are ready to sprinkle poison on you at any moment._

_In conclusion, I just want to assure you that, by all means, I will take care of Lyanna while she is here._

_I am waiting for your answer, whichever it may be._

_Brandon Stark_

Brandon stared at the letter thoughtlessly for a long time until the words began to blur. He raised his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, feeling an impending headache. Nagging doubt literally split his skull to pieces. Brandon was aware that by sending this message he was betraying his family, his pack, but he could not sacrifice himself for the sake of his father's ambitions. Wolves do not survive in captivity, and father attempted to cage Brandon, and Eddard, and Lyanna. Ben was still a wolf cub, so the cage was rather big for him, and he did not see its end, naively believing himself free. Probably, this was his father's huge mistake. In childhood, they considered themselves free, they got used to this freedom and now could not bear to be locked in chains.

Raised in the south, Eddard was easy to tame with his notions of duty and honour. He did not show his teeth when his father refused to let him marry Ashara Dayne. The poor man still hoped to persuade lord Stark, and did not notice how the iron neck strap was put on him. But Brandon was different, headstrong and stubborn, he would not allow himself to be captured. He would die in captivity, and Eddard might even be satisfied and well fed, like the tame bears that buffoons sometimes brought with them to fairs.

Brandon started to understand his sister now, and if the Crown Prince had not been her choice, he might even have sided with her. Rhaegar Targaryen was lost to Lyanna when he said his vows to Cersei Lannister in the Great Sept of Baelor. This passion could only lead to pain and disappointment. Men were forgiven for out of marriage liaisons, and Brandon understood this better than anyone, but Lyanna could easily destroy herself by making the wrong choice. So young and bright, Brandon did not know how he could help her.

The Stark heir rolled up the parchment and sealed it, the red direwolf ran towards its fate on the hardening wax. Brandon got up, buttoned the collar of his grey doublet, and headed towards the rookery. It was getting late, and he hoped that Pycell was no longer there. Brandon did not want to put the message in the old man's hands. His hopes, fortunately, were materialized: the rookery was completely empty, only the birds looked at him with wise tired eyes, as if they already knew what he was going to do. One of the ravens flew off the perch and landed on Brandon's shoulder, a coin with the direwolf sparkled on its paw. He carefully removed the bird from himself and tied the message to it. The raven grunted and glanced at Brandon almost deliberately. The bird flapped its wings and flew out, dissolving into the surrounding darkness. There was no turning back, and Brandon felt better at heart, he smiled at the remaining birds and went back to his place. Well, he made his choice, and he will answer for it, no matter how it all ends.

Elia was to come to him today, and he was eager to tell her everything. Passing Maegor's Holdfast, Brandon noticed that the lights there were still on, although, with the departure of Prince Rhaegar, the royal family went to bed early, and only the Princess stayed up late sometimes. Surely, the King was again overcome by anxiety, and this did not bring anything good with it. Brandon sighed heavily and hurried back to his chambers.

Before he had time to pour himself some wine, Elia slipped quietly into his room, locking the door behind her. Rustling her light southern dress, she dived immediately into Brandon’s arms as he had risen to meet her.

“Hello, butterfly,” he whispered into her heavy dark hair, which gave off the familiar scent of gooseberries.

“Hello,” Elia smiled tenderly.

She did that whenever she heard this pet name, he had coined for her, and Brandon took her smile for approval. Previously, he never had the need to call women anything more than just "my dear", but in relation to Elia, that seemed wrong. It left a sugary-sweet aftertaste of indifference and lies, and could in no way relate to his fragile, but so strong Princess.

“I’m sorry, I stayed late with Ashara,” Elia looked up guiltily, waving her long black eyelashes at him, “she is very worried about her brother, and I had to calm her down.”

“Someone like Sword of the Morning cannot be lost so easily,” Brandon grinned, covering his dornishgirl’s forehead and cheeks with kisses, “besides, what can possibly happen to him on those silly ruins the prince is so fond of.”

“I tried to explain it to her, but she still worries,” Elia closed her eyes marvelling at his caress, and her face formed such a blissful expression, as if she were basking in her so beloved sun.

“Everything will be fine,” Brandon said, and embraced Elia wrapping his arms around her. He was not sure who he addressed those words to exactly, to her or to himself, but he had to let them out of his mouth.

“You're right,” Elia nodded, she looked at Brandon anxiously and rested her head on his shoulder, “let us not talk about it anymore, otherwise I also get scared. Did you have dinner?”

"Yes," Brandon said, "are you hungry? I can only offer you some fruit and wine.”

“That's enough,” Elia smiled. She seemed to have guessed that all this was prepared exclusively for her. She grabbed a peach from the silver tray and dug into it hungrily. “They taste different in Dorne,” the Princess said with a touch of sadness. “You have just to take a bite and the juice flows down your chin and hands. I want you to try real peaches and oranges someday. There are so many of them in the Water Gardens, you can pick them right from the branch. When you start peeling them, the juice sprays right into your face and burns your eyes, but it's terribly funny.” Her face lightened up, as if she was recalling some picture from her past.

“I will definitely see it all with my own eyes,” Brandon filled an empty goblet with wine and handed it to her. “Dornish. Especially for you.”

“Thank you.” Elia took his hand. “Do you miss home?”

“Yes,” Brandon admitted. “As you do.”

“But only here we can be so close,” Elia whispered and reached out to him.

Her kiss was as sweet as a peach and as rough as good wine. He lifted her into his arms, wondering all over again how light she was, just as airy as her southern dress, which flew like a cloud to the floor. Elia's slender arms hugged his muscular neck tightly, her fingers tangled in his thick brown hair. She chuckled softly, every time his prickly beard tickled her soft, tender skin, which Brandon touched with almost an awe. Compared to him, Elia was so small, so fragile that he was afraid to break her in his bear hug, but she only clung to him tighter and tighter, demanding not to let her go. Well, he was certainly not planning to do it now.

“You're being rather thoughtful today,” Elia muttered, stroking his shoulder. She lay on her side, propping her head on her hand, and examined him carefully. A waterfall of black hair fell over her sharp shoulders.

“It's because I keep thinking when the moment is good enough to finally tell you something.” Brandon kept looking at her fingers that touched his shoulder so tenderly. Compared to hers, his skin looked pale, even sickly.

“Since you’ve already started talking about it,” Elia frowned, “perhaps, the best moment comes now. Just warn me right away, if I’m not going to like it.”

“You’ll like it,” Brandon smiled, and then added excitedly, “I mean, I hope you will. I wrote to my father. I told him I wanted to end my betrothal to lady Catelyn and marry you. If you agree of course.”

“You are out of your mind!” Elia exclaimed, but her dark eyes suddenly shone a tone brighter. “I cannot accept such a sacrifice.”

“This is not a sacrifice,” Brandon shook his head, touching her cheek, “I have been thinking about it for a long time and realized that I didn’t want and couldn’t do it any other way.”

Elia said nothing, she embraced him again, burying her nose at the crook of his neck. Brandon felt her hot, rapid breathing and some scalding moisture on his skin. Tears?

“Are you crying?” He asked in surprise. “Is it because of me?”

“Yes, because of you,” she muttered into his neck, and he hugged her gently. “How can you give up everything that was intended for you? Brandon, you know well yourself that my health can fail me at any moment, and you will be left alone. Tell your father that you changed your mind, please do.”

“I won’t change my mind,” Brandon replied eagerly. “Father hasn’t given me an answer yet, maybe it’ll still be all right. And if not, I will still marry you, and we will leave, where there is more sun and where it will be easier for you.”

“Oh, Bran,” she exclaimed, “I never thought you could do that.”

“Me neither, butterfly, me neither,” he muttered, smiling cautiously.

She lifted her tear-stained face to him, and he began to wipe the tears from her sunken cheeks with his thumb. Elia grabbed his hand and, squeezing it in her slender fingers, began to cover it with kisses.

“Hush.” Brandon pulled his hand away and touched her dishevelled hair. Still sobbing softly, Elia put her head to his chest and pressed tight against him, allowing him to put his arm around her shoulders. They were silent for a while, and nothing could be heard in the whole chamber except their even breathing and crackling of fire in the hearth, however, Brandon could not stay mute for a long time.

“Do you think your brother is going to kill me now?”

“I think he would want to kill any man who shows interest in me,” Elia chuckled, “he always made fun of my suitors, and since most of them were not to my liking at all, I often supported him in this. In fact, I think he is afraid of losing me. Nobody realizes that I do not want to be treated like an expensive china vase.”

“I won't treat you like a vase,” Brandon assured her, “but you must let me take care of you. I'm scared of losing you too.”

“Fine then,” Elia looked at him gratefully, but all of a sudden changed her tone to a condescendingly playful one, “just don't overstep your boundaries.”

She rolled over onto her stomach and now looked at him with her black pools directly into his grey stormy eyes. Elia bit her lip warily, forcing Brandon to raise his eyebrows in question.

“I need to tell you something too,” she finally muttered, “but please don’t try to dissuade me, I’ve already made my decision and it’s final.”

“Your words make me worry,” Brandon said warily.

“I...” Elia smiled with surprising brightness, “I'm with child, Bran. Your child.”

Brandon's lips curved in surprise, but he could not say anything. It took him a few moments to grasp the meaning of what she had just said. Joy began to spread warmth slowly throughout his body, but it suddenly froze, shackled by icy fear.

“But are the maesters...?” he did not finish, letting the unspoken words hang in the air with an unasked question.

“Yes,” Elia nodded, “but I want to try. If I cannot survive this, then there is someone to take care of my child, and if the gods are good to me, then I will become the happiest woman in the world. So, do you still want to marry me?”

“More than ever,” Brandon exclaimed, “may the old gods and the new be merciful to us.”

Elia did not answer, she circled her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his chest. For some reason Brandon felt very uncomfortable, such talks were completely unfamiliar to him, but with Elia he every day learned something new, unknown to him before. Was it that he had never encountered such women ‒ unusually ladylike and fragile, but at the same time strong-willed and free, or was it that Elia was special as she was, special for him?

“What will your family say to all this?” Brandon asked in a whisper.

“I don’t want to tell them until it’s too late to intervene,” Elia sighed heavily. “They won't understand. And then I will somehow manage to pacify them, they love me. Whatever happens, we can always escape to the Free Cities as you wanted, remember?”

“Then we’ll have to take my sister with us,” Brandon chuckled. “I promised I would look after her, and I don’t want to leave her alone.”

“Of course,” a smile lit Elia's face up, “we will find her a beautiful rich pentoshi husband, and she will forget about her prince at once.”

Having said that, Elia pursed her lips guiltily, realizing that she had touched upon a forbidden topic. In their conversations, they spoke about it just once and only in passing.

“Everything is all right,” Brandon smiled, “all four of us will settle in his marvellous rich palace, peaches and oranges will grow right by our windows, the sun will always shine there and it will be warm, and the cool wind from the sea will refresh us. We will be very happy, butterfly, I promise. Now go to sleep.”

Elia obeyed him, but did not release him from her embrace, and her head continued to lie on his chest. Soon her breathing became even, and Brandon knew she was asleep. As for him, he could not close his eyes and sleep so peacefully. Their conversation kept repeating and repeating itself in his head, and his anxiety was growing. He thought he knew exactly what he was doing, but now this confidence was replaced by a lack of understanding of what to do next. At that moment, he envied the determination owned by this slim girl, so young and so wise. Only now he thought that he was not worthy of her, but she chose him, and he chose her. Or it was the gods who brought them together.

Brandon was already beginning to fall into sleep when a sharp knock at the door made him flinch. It was already dawn outside the window, and Brandon thought it was the squire who had come to wake him. Well, he will have to send the boy away. Brandon got out of Elia’s embrace, she too had been awakened by the loud knocking and was now stretching sleepily beside him. Throwing on his robe, the heir to the North headed for the door.

What he saw there did not meet Brandon's expectations at all. Albyn Snow looked at him from the doorway with burning, almost insane eyes. Staggering, he took a step forward and would have fallen if Brandon had not supported him.

“Albyn, what happened?” Brandon exclaimed. “Are you drunk?”

But then the heir to the North realized how wrong he was. A thin trickle of blood that looked almost black in the darkness ran down Albyn's chin; his clothes were also covered in blood, which now dripped onto the floor, leaving a trail, and stained Brandon's robe. Hushed wheezing escaped Albyn's throat.

Elia, wrapped in a blanket, jumped out of bed and ran to them, helping Brandon to hold down the commander of the Stark house guard. Together they managed to put Albyn on the bed with difficulty.

“Fetch the maester,” Brandon told Elia, but Albyn grabbed his arm at the very moment.

“No need,” he croaked, “listen...” bloody bubbles burst out from his throat along with the words, “they took Lyanna...”

“Who are they?” Brandon cried, feeling Elia squeeze his shoulder in fear.

“The king's house guard,” Albyn uttered every word with great difficulty. A spasm of pain passed over his face, but he continued to speak. “Dragons... some of our men were killed, and lady Lyanna was taken away...”

“Where to?” Brandon almost screamed. “Where have they taken her?”

He still continued to shoot out questions when he realized that he would never receive any answers to them. Albyn's lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling, his chest no longer heaving, and the blanket beneath him was soaked red with blood.

For a moment, Brandon felt confusion claim him, however, it was rather quickly replaced by determination.

“Elia,” he called, grabbing his breeches, tunic and doublet in an armful and starting to put them on, “get dressed as soon as you can and leave here. Nobody should ever know where you’ve been, what you’ve seen and what you’ve heard. Do you understand?” he took her face in his hands and looked into her frightened eyes.

Elia nodded convulsively in response. Having buttoned up the doublet somehow, Brandon helped her dive into her dress and, taking her hand, led her to the door. Before leaving, he looked out into the corridor to make sure no one was there.

“Where are you going?” Elia asked as he pushed open the door.

“To look for Lyanna,” he said passionately. “Everything will be fine, butterfly. And now you should leave.”

Instead of obeying him, Elia froze in place, her eyes filled with tears, and her fingers gripped Brandon's hand.

“I love you,” he whispered, admitting it to her for the first time. Once again, he pressed his lips to hers, and then pulled his hand out of her grip and pleaded, “Leave!”

Elia sobbed and, having whispered softly "I love you too!", rushed away.

Clutching the hilt of his sword, Brandon strode through the awakening Red Keep and to the throne room. If the King is not on his iron chair, then he will sit under the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast and will not leave there until his sister is returned to him. The servants, already scurrying about their daily chores, looked at him with apprehension, but did not dare to raise a fuss: one never knows, what quirks those noblemen might have.

The chill of the morning bit his skin rather unpleasantly, and Brandon realized only now that he had not put on a warm cloak. There was no point in going back, however. Brandon wished that Prince Rhaegar was at the Keep now. Perhaps Lyanna was taken away because the Prince was not here, and yet he had promised that she would not be harmed. Bastard! He is no better than his father. Brandon was immediately ashamed of the pity he had once felt for this pompous youth. If Lyanna was even a little dear to him, he would never allow this.

From the Prince, Brandon's thoughts drifted to himself. Was he any better? Too carried away by his own affairs, making plans, luxuriating in bed with Elia, completely forgetting about his sister. Surely, she called him for help, but he did not come. Perfect elder brother as he was! Out of anger at himself, Brandon wanted to shout and climb the walls, but he could no longer change anything, so all that remained was to demand justice from the King. If Aerys, who had lost his mind, will not listen to him, then his advisers must certainly understand that such actions are an insult to the Great House Stark and can lead to war. Who wants to fight the war now? Of course, the King must be persuaded to change his mind.

All these thoughts were mixed in Brandon's head, they flashed in front of him like distant shadows, and he did not manage to catch them, they flew so quickly before his inner gaze. Brandon felt a sudden wave of heat sweep over him, his cheeks burning and beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He gripped the sword hilt even tighter and did not notice as to how he found himself at the entrance to the throne room, guarded by Prince Lewyn Martell. And he, a fool, had completely forgotten about the kingsguards. At least Prince Lewynn's presence indicated that the King was inside. Brandon stepped out of the darkness, but the guard heard his movements even earlier and turned in his direction, giving Brandon a surprised, hostile look.

“I need to speak to His Grace,” Brandon came close to the guard. Perhaps Elia could have somehow influenced her kin, but Brandon could not endanger her either. White cloaks abandon their family in the name of the King, and it was unclear as to who will be dearer to Prince Lewyn ‒ the Mad King or his own niece.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," the guard replied calmly.

Brandon raised his sword, pointing it at Prince Lewyn.

“Trust me, what I need to discuss is highly important,” he said angrily.

“You are doing something very silly now, lord Stark,” the knight's dark eyes narrowed intently. “Put your sword down and I won't tell anyone about what happened here.”

“I have no choice but to go on with this silly thing of mine.” No one knew where they had taken Lyanna or what had been done to her, and Brandon could not allow his little sister to suffer even for a moment longer.

He did not even have time to start a proper attack, as Prince Lewyn knocked the sword out of his hands and struck the heir to the North on the head with the flat side of his blade. A huge stone slab seemed to have fallen on his skull, and Brandon fell to his knees. The guard kicked the eldest Stark's sword, tossing it aside, twisted Brandon's arms behind his back and, opening the heavy doors, pushed him into the throne room. His head was lowered, and Brandon could only see the toes of his own boots and the dark marble floor.

“Ser Lewyn?” Brandon heard a voice through the buzz in his head. “What happened?”

“My Lord Hand, this man, lord Stark,” the guard stood right behind Brandon, but it seemed to him that the words reached him from a distance of several yards, “demanded an audience with His Grace, threatening me with his sword.”

“Truly a silly thing to do,” came another voice. They all seemed familiar to Brandon, but he could not match them with names. A sea was raging and storming in his head, and the heir to the North could not get rid of this annoying sound.

“I agree with you, Staunton,” someone else said, “what is it you want, lord Stark?”

“My sister,” Brandon muttered, his eyes swirling and nausea rising in his throat, “Lady Lyanna. Let her go.”

“What happened to your sister?” The last man who spoke started again.

“She was taken away,” Brandon wanted to clutch his head between his hands, but ser Lewyn still held them tightly behind his back, “the king’s men...”

“There must be some explanation for this,” the same man continued. “Your Grace, what made you give such an order? Lady Lyanna is not an enemy of the crown.”

“I gave no such order,” the King snorted.

“Could it be you, my lord Hand?” The voice pierced Brandon's temples like a bunch of needles.

“Of course not,” said Merryweather. "Are you sure they were the king's men? Have you seen them yourself?”

“My man saw them,” Brandon breathed out. “He couldn't lie”, he had to convince them at all costs that he was right.

“Are you saying that His Grace or our Lord Hand is deceiving you?” Brandon could no longer distinguish between those worrisome, haughty voices. All of them echoed now in his head with the strongest pain.

“I’m not,” Brandon tried to argue, “I don’t...”

“Nevertheless, you persist upon the opposite?”

“But…” Brandon had no more time to say anything else.

“Enough,” the King’s voice cut through the throne room, “enough of messing with this traitor! I will not allow unfounded accusations against the crown. Send him to the dungeons, and then we will decide what to do with him.”


	33. Jon I

Jon Connington was sound asleep in his warm bed when he was awakened by a frightened servant drumming on his door. At first it seemed to the lord of Griffin Roost that it was just a bad dream, but the knocking became louder and more persistent, and finally forced Jon to leave the land of pleasant oblivion and open his heavy eyelids quite reluctantly.

“What is going on, may the Others take you?” Connington offered angrily, as a reply, when he opened the door. The servant looked down guiltily and muttered something unintelligible, of which Jon could only make out that a certain youth was waiting for him at the gate. "Turn him away," Jon ordered, starting his way back under the warm blankets, "and don't bother me while I’m sleeping."

“I tried to, m'lord,” the servant objected, “but he is very persistent and says that you must definitely go down yourself, and that he has something very important to discuss with you.”

“Fine,” Jon snorted in displeasure.

He pulled a warm fur cloak right over his long nightgown and grabbed the sword which leaned against the wall of his bedchamber.

“If you cannot deal with a wandering boy,” he said with dissatisfaction to a servant who followed him respectfully with a torch in his hands, “then I’ll show you how it’s done. And where were the guards looking?”

Another homeless or peasant son, so impudent that he decided to ask for an overnight stay in a rich castle. Such people often knocked at the gates, especially in the cold winter, but rarely did anyone of them so unceremoniously demanded a conversation with the lord himself. Enflamed by this circumstance, Jon gritted his teeth angrily and walked so fast that the servant could hardly keep up with him.

His forebodings did not deceive him, and behind a small opening within the wooden panel of the gate there appeared a grimy and frightened face of an impudent boy. Two guards stood at each side and stared at their lord in bewilderment with eyes wide as saucers. Connington gave both of them a frustrated look: if they did their job well enough, they would have whipped the boy for shamelessness and thrown him out.

“Well, what do you want?” Jon asked irritably.

The youth, as expected, was not a bit embarrassed and said in a whisper:

“Don't you recognize me, lord Connington?”

Jon was surprised and astonished by this suggestion, but stepped closer and peered into the boy's large frog-like green eyes. Those wide-set eyes, that broken nose, and full red lips truly felt familiar to John. In less than a couple of moments, an insight shone like a sun through the sleepy fog in his head.

“Seven hells! Richard?” Connington exclaimed, when the picture had finally and completely formed in his sleepy mind, and he recognized Richard Lonmouth. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Send the servant and the guards away,” Richard whispered, “and open the gate then. Nobody should see anything. It is very important.”

Jon took the torch from the servant and sent him back to the castle, then he thrust his sword to the guards, ordering them to take it to the armoury and polish it sparkling clean along with his armour. Looking at each other in abashment, they hastened to leave, until their master came up with a worse punishment. Then, doing as told, Connington unlocked the gate, admitting Lonmouth into the yard. The young man was followed by a whole small caravan of four horses, one of them carried a rider, who was half-lying on its back. His head was buried in the horse's silver mane, and his arms wrapped around its muscular neck, the rider's hair was tangled and smeared with mud, he was covered with a cloak turned inside out. Only after having examined this strange sight carefully, Jon suddenly realized that this was not just a horse, but Jelmio ‒ Prince Rhaegar’s favourite stallion. Connington glanced at Richard, demanding immediate explanations with just a scorching glare.

“Do you trust your maester enough?” Lonmouth asked sternly and continued to glance around worriedly, still fearing that someone might see them.

“Yes,” Jon nodded absently.

“Then call him quickly,” Richard demanded, “but before that, help me carry His Highness to the castle.”

“His Highness?” Connington did not notice in his astonishment that he was letting the young green boy give him orders.

“Yes,” Lonmouth hissed, “but no one except yourself should know that it’s him. Even the servants.”

Connington did not understand the reason for such a secret, but agreed silently with Richard's demands. Together they untied the ropes that strapped Rhaegar to the saddle, and the Prince slid lifelessly into Jon's arms. His body felt surprisingly heavy and scaldingly hot. Connington's chest hurt. Rhaegar groaned something unintelligible, his eyelids fluttering, but he never opened his eyes. Looking at him, Jon was not surprised that he did not recognize his Prince at once. Fine silver hair was hidden under a thick layer of mud, an ugly, reddened wound crossed his chiselled, marbled face from left to right and by touch it felt dangerously inflamed.

“What happened to him?” Connington asked, turning to Richard.

“Later,” Lonmouth grumbled.

Together they dragged the Prince into the castle, laying him on a narrow wooden bed in one of the empty rooms. As Rhaegar's body sank onto the sheets, yellow with age and uselessness, a cloud of dust escaped from there. Jon rushed immediately to look for the maester, and Lonmouth sent for candles, water, and wood for the hearth. From the moment he saw the state the Prince was in, Jon's heart was beating somewhere in his throat, and striving to jump out of his mouth.

Maester Cknoot, who served in Griffin Roost, was already good into his seventh decade, and at that time had long been asleep, like all the other inhabitants of the castle. Jon shook him awake; his own voice high with excitement forcing the old man to get up immediately. If the maester was bewildered by such an awakening, he did not show it, he pulled his grey robe on calmly and hoisted a heavy chain around his neck, while Jon was waiting outside the door, tapping his foot nervously on the stone floor. Seeing that the maester was ready, Connington jumped off at once and almost ran back. Maester, however, due to his venerable age, was not capable of such swiftness, and Jon had to halt constantly, waiting for the old man to catch up with him.

In the chamber where the Prince was lying, Richard was already lighting the candles hastily, giving the maester as much light as possible. When Jon pointed him out the wounded man, Cknoot did not ask questions and started the examination silently, while maintaining an absolutely calm expression on his face, which seemed to be stuck to it. Lonmouth was now busy with the hearth, and Jon, left idle, began to pace nervously around the room.

“So?” he called to the maester, finally, unable to bear it any longer.

“He needs a bath,” said the maester. “Could you assist us with this, lord Connington?”

Jon felt the urge to rebel and argue, but instead obeyed rather quietly. The days when maester Cknoot taught him numbers and letters had not yet faded from the memory of the still young lord Connington, and the old maester was one of the few who, with his calm and reasonable tone, could pacify his temper and wilfulness.

It took longer than usual to prepare a bath, for both Jon and young Richard could hardly manage such things without the help of the servants. Rhaegar’s clothes had to be cut, as, covered in dried mud and blood, they hardened in some places and could not be taken off easily. The Prince smelled of sweat, horse, and something sickeningly sweet, quick shallow breaths escaped through his whitened and chapped lips. He opened his eyes for a brief moment, but his gaze wandered somewhere far away, Rhaegar looked at the faces of the people surrounding him as if they were not there and there was only emptiness around him. Then he suddenly seemed to recognize someone, smiled, mumbled something inaudible, and fell into oblivion again.

At last, the Prince’s doublet, tunic and breeches were cut into pieces and put together by the bed in a pile of dirty rags, and his body was submerged in hot water. Jon was horrified at how pale and thin the Prince's skin looked, with the tiny blue veins visible right through it. There was a red wound covered with a bloody crust on his thigh, an incomprehensible transparent liquid that looked like melted butter oozed from under the crust. Jon writhed, feeling the nausea rise in his throat again.

Rhaegar's head was tilting to one side all the time, and it was necessary to hold it, but Lonmouth did all this himself, and Jon could only stand aside and watch, experiencing a strange desire to touch the sharp pale shoulder sticking out of the water.

As the water freed Rhaegar's thick silver hair from the dirt that has stuck to it, maester Cknoot gave Jon an odd look, but remained considerately silent.

“The bed needs to be re-made,” he said a little later, dabbing the Prince’s face with a wet cloth, “the poor young man should rest on clean sheets.”

Jon sent Richard to the closet where the maids kept fresh linen, urging him to be quiet. Jon himself squatted down next to the bathtub. Steam evaporating from the hot water filled the room, making the air humid and hard to breathe in; the hearth was already lit, spreading heat around the small space. Jon felt beads of sweat trickle down his forehead, and he was surprised to find that in a hurry he had forgotten to take his cloak off. Shaking his head, Connington threw it to the floor, remaining just in his nightshirt.

The maester continued to wash the Prince's face with careful movements. Jon, in Richard's absence, was holding Rhaegar's head as if it were an expensive crystal vase. With his free hand, he gently removed the tangled wet strands of hair from the Prince's forehead, and was scared to see his own hand tremble. Jon looked warily at the maester, but the old man was absorbed in his own concerns and did not pay attention to the confusion of his lord.

“Is it forever?” Jon asked suddenly, nodding at Rhaegar's face.

“I’m afraid so,” maester Cknoot said regretfully, “the cut is strongly fevered and is unlikely to heal easily.”

“What about the other wound?” Jon pursed his lips anxiously. “How dangerous is it?”

“You saw yourself that it was festering,” the maester said. “Moreover, judging by the high fever the young man is suffering from, pus has most likely already gotten into his blood. I will try to stretch it out with herbs, but we can only hope that it is not too late.”

Jon wanted desperately to ask the maester if Rhaegar could die, but his fear of getting an answer was stronger than his wish to know the truth. The old maester might have given him confidence, or he might have killed his last hope.

The water cooled down gradually, and Rhaegar was lifted out of the bath and laid carefully on the bed Richard had made for him. Maester Cknoot brought many flasks of various herbs and ointments from his chambers and tended to the Prince's wounds. Lonmouth, looking both sad and tired, settled himself on a small wooden chair by the hearth. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared in front of him. Jon, without asking anything more, turned to the window.

The chamber was filled with the scent of something rough and fresh at the same time, similar to the smell of mint growing in the courtyard, if you rub it between your fingers. The maester mucked about with Rhaegar for a long time, and the silence that hung over them was broken only by the clinging of his bottles and the crackling of firewood in the hearth. Richard stood up from time to time and threw in fresh logs, making sure that the fire did not extinguish.

By the time maester Cknoot finished, it was already starting to grow lighter and the sky outside the window turned dirty grey. With Jon’s help, he poured some kind of tincture into Rhaegar's mouth and retired to rest, it was evident that the old man got very tired during the night. Longmouth pulled the loose pillow off the bed with a wide yawn and lay down on the floor, covering himself with his cloak. When Jon offered him to sleep in the next room on a comfortable bed, the squire refused. He did not want to leave his Prince.

Connington took a chair and sat down next to Rhaegar's bed. Despite the restless night, he did not want to sleep. The Prince, on the other hand, slept calmly, even childishly serene, his breathing became smoother and deeper, his mouth was slightly open, and in its corners, there could be seen the greenish traces of the maester’s drug. Rhaegar remained pale, although warmth and hot water made his skin a little pinker. Jon put his hand on his forehead and almost burned his palm: the Prince was literally on fire from the inside, and Connington could only pray to the Seven so that they would save the life of a friend, who was dearest to Jon in the whole world.

When the sun crept lazily over the horizon, breaking through grey clouds with its rays and painting the sky in bright blue, Jon finally dozed off. Through his light sleep, he heard the fumblings of the awakened Richard, and then the door slammed behind him, closing. However, Jon only opened his eyes when he sensed movement on Rhaegar's bed. The Prince did not wake up, but his features were distorted by a heavy grimace of pain, his head darted on the pillow, and his hand reached involuntarily for the bandage on his leg, trying to remove it. Apparently, the herbs used by the maester began to take effect. Jon grabbed Rhaegar's arm, placing it on top of the blanket, but this did not help, and Connington had to stop the Prince's attempts to get rid of the bandage several times. Rhaegar became restless, he muttered something and a moan escaped his lips.

“Hush, hush, my prince,” Jon whispered, holding Rhaegar's hand again, “calm down.”

Rhaegar groaned as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Lyanna,” a sigh left the Prince's lips and disappeared into thin air. Jon thought he had misheard him until the Prince repeated, “Lyanna,” and squeezed Connington's hand painfully.

Jon did not understand at once as to whom his friend was calling until Lyanna Stark, crowned with a laurel of winter roses, appeared before his eyes as if she were here. Then he, too, fell silent, along with the whole crowd, when Rhaegar, having passed his own wife by, had laid the queen of love and beauty’s laurel on the northern girl’s lap. Jon was unable to understand why the Prince did so, and in the confusion that started afterwards, he did not have time to properly question him. Well, it looked like the flighty Stark girl had truly managed to capture his Silver Prince’s heart. Jon had a hard time explaining to himself why the thought had hurt him, like a tub of cold water poured over him on a frosty morning. Connington glanced at Rhaegar and released his hot hand.

In the afternoon Jon had to attend to his affairs so that the castle servants would not suspect anything, leaving the Prince in the care of Richard and maester Cknoot, who had come back during the morning. He told one of his old servants that the boy was his distant, ruined relative and would stay in the castle for some time. It was quite possible for the Prince to remain unnoticed, but Jelmio, who was eating oats in his stall, stood out too much, and this worried Jon not in the least. In the end, without deciding anything, he took the stallion to the far end of the stalls, from where he would hardly be visible. Jelmio snorted with displeasure and kicked the ground with his hoof, feeling, obviously, that not everything was going well with his master, and Jon was never able to calm him down completely even with a sweet carrot. Connington ordered a stable boy to look after the stallion, announcing that his friends had sent him a gift. Jon could not find a better explanation, for the servants it should have been enough.

Connington was only able to return to Rhaegar in the afternoon. Richard and Maester Cknoot were still there, and if maester's expression had not changed in any way, Lonmouth had cheered up a little.

“Maester says he’s better,” Richard announced happily.

“Is that true?” Jon looked at the Prince, who was still pale and still unconscious. “He was very restless in the morning.”

“There is nothing wrong with that,” the maester explained, “early morning and late-night hours are the hardest ones; besides, my ointment probably caused some inconvenience to the young man. Now his wounds are looking a little better, I think he will recover quite soon.”

Rhaegar lay falling in and out of consciousness for another two weeks, but his fever did slowly subside, and oblivion gradually transformed into heavy sleep. Sometimes the Prince woke up for a short time and even ate a little, but then again, he fell into a doze. Maester Cknoot gave him small portions of milk of the poppy to relieve him from pain and burning sensation caused by the ointments, but he forbade Jon to do it himself without necessary knowledge, so Rhaegar sometimes suffered from new spasms of pain, but he did not call out to anyone again and only muffled moans escaped through his clenched teeth. It was not until the seventeenth day after Richard Lonmouth knocked at the gates of the Griffin Roost then Rhaegar finally came to his senses. Upon seeing this, his squire almost burst into tears, and Jon smiled with relief, trying to calm his heart leaping with joy.

“How do you feel, my prince?” Connington asked when he entered the small chamber after hearing Lonmouth’s outburst of joy.

“Strange,” Rhaegar replied thoughtfully, “but I'm glad to see you, Jon.”

“I'm glad to talk to you at last,” Connington grinned.

Having put a couple of pillows under his back, the Prince ate some broth and, grimacing, drank another maester's tincture, after that he asked Jon and Richard to stay with him. The door was firmly locked, but while the Prince spoke, Lonmouth kept opening it, checking to see if there was someone eavesdropping. Jon found such precautions unnecessary, but after hearing Rhaegar up to the end, Connington was forced to agree with them.

"Are you saying that your own father...?" Jon did not finish, the very assumption seemed monstrous to him. “This cannot be.”

“You have to accept it,” Rhaegar sighed. “I didn’t believe he was capable of such a thing myself, and now I’m paying the price for it.”

“I'm sorry.” Connington threw up his hands in the air helplessly, not knowing what else to add.

The prince turned away and said nothing.

“I want to get up, can you spare me some of your clothes, Jon?” He continued a few moments later. His face became serious, and there was confidence in his strong glare.

“Sure,” Jon nodded, “but why are you in such a hurry? Wouldn't it be better to wait until your wounds are fully healed?”

“I cannot wait,” Rhaegar shook his head, determination mixed in half with doom in his dark indigo eyes.

"Are you sure it really needs to be done so soon...?" Connington argued again.

“Yes, I am sure!” The Prince exclaimed irritably. “How many times should I repeat that?”

Jon took a step back from him, startled by this sudden outburst. He had never seen the usually calm and withdrawn Rhaegar so full of poisoned anger.

“I beg your pardon,” Connington muttered.

“It’s me who should beg pardon,” the Prince clenched his hand into a fist, as if he wanted to strike someone, “my family is there, in the Red Keep, and at any moment my father can take the life of any of them. Perhaps he has already done it.” Rhaegar's lips quivered, fear flashed in his eyes, he looked with horror at his fingers clenched into a fist and turned his gaze to the dusty wall, as if deciding to study the spider webs twisted in the corner. “Richard,” the Prince said to his squire, “find some black dye for me.”

Richard jumped up, ready to rush upon the Prince’s orders at once.

"Wait," Rhaegar stopped him with a wave of his hand, "first help me get up and get dressed."

Jon brought the Prince some of his clean clothes, which turned out to be a little short for Rhaegar, and too wide at the shoulders, although, if not studied closely, it looked, in general, quite bearable. As the Prince climbed out of bed, Jon noticed how he winced in pain, but as soon as Connington tried to object, Rhaegar stopped him at once with an irritated gesture. The Prince, limping slightly, walked a little around the room to stretch his muscles that had become numb during the time spent without movement. However, he got quickly tired and sat down at a small wooden table that stood in the corner, Jon did not help but notice that the Prince stretched his sore leg forward in front of him.

“Where could I go, lord Connington?” Lonmouth asked.

“A fair arrived to a neighbouring village just the other day,” Jon replied, reflecting. “I'll go with you.”

Connington would have preferred to stay with the Prince, but Rhaegar did not seem inclined to have another conversation, he sat with his chin resting on his interlocked hands, and gazed distractedly into space. Jon was eager to ask what kind of musings engrossed him so, but he did not dare to interfere with his Silver Prince. Rhaegar rarely shared his thoughts with Connington, the only person who could boast of being in the prince's confidence was Arthur Dayne. Jon had always known about it, but this knowledge did not make it easier for him. After all, ser Arthur was most likely dead now, which meant that Rhaegar might look for a replacement for him, even unwittingly. With all his heart, Connington longed to prove his loyalty to the Prince, but Rhaegar did not let Jon come closer, continuing to remain mostly a mystery to his friend.

Upon realizing that there was no point in staying behind with the Prince, Jon decided to keep an eye on Lonmouth so that he did not do something reckless. Ever since his arrival at Griffin Roost, he dressed and behaved like a simple country boy and seemed to enjoy that. The servants, who considered him an impoverished relative of Connington himself, did not pay attention to the boy, and only the young maids, tired of the same sour faces, vied with each other for a chance to flirt with the cheerful youth.

When they arrived at the fair, Richard went to search the stalls, and Jon walked slowly along the rows, keeping the boy in sight. The turmoil that reigned around annoyed him, but he kept the calm and dignified appearance befitting a local lord. Colourful foreign fabrics, ornaments and herbs did not interest him. However, he paused at the wine stall, considering whether it might be worth replenishing the stocks in his cellars and starting inquiries with the visiting merchant. Richard, meanwhile, was chatting nearby with a girl, who blushed and lowered her gaze constantly.

Having noticed the interest of the rich lord, the merchant began to praise his wares. Jon answered with his usual arrogance, but realizing that thus he would never win a man to himself, he became a little friendlier.

“Where have you come from?” he asked curiously, taking a sip of the wine offered to him. Gold. It gave off a sour gooseberry flavour.

“From Arbor itself!” The merchant responded enthusiastically. “Rode up the Mander, travelled to King's Landing, and then went to the stormlands, traded at Broad Arch, Parchments and Grey Gallows, I only left Storm's End three days ago.”

“And how do you find the capital?” Jon continued his questioning, trying to look at ease.

“The weather was worse there, and I have sold little in the capital,” the merchant complained, “All I gained was gossip.”

“Well, what is the main news of King's Landing?” Connington smiled as he tried another sort of wine. “Nothing has reached us here for quite a long time.”

“Nothing of interest, my lord,” the merchant waved his hand off, “only old women's nonsense. They say that Prince Rhaegar abducted some girl of noble birth. He hides her supposedly somewhere in the Dornish Marches, and does all sorts of nasty things to her. The brother of the said girl accused the king of this and intended to kill him. I was assured that the execution of this reckless young man was to take place on the day of my departure and was persuaded to stay and watch.”

“Nonsense indeed,” Connington offered, fearing to betray his interest. Rhaegar would certainly not like the news. “I’ll take ten barrels of this wine, make sure they are delivered to my keep.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” the merchant’s face seemed to have reddened, “but I have only three of them left, the remnants were taken by one lord I met near Storm's End. He wanted to make a gift to lord Baratheon, as he said.”

“Hmm,” Jon frowned, “I wonder who was ahead of me?”

“Lord Stark, my lord,” the merchant replied, “I don’t know what he looks like, but there were direwolves on his banners.”

“Fine,” Jon nodded, “three of this one then and seven of that I tasted last.”

Connington untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to the stunned merchant. He had no idea that he had given Jon something much more valuable than ten barrels of wine. The man was still gleefully thanking Connington as Jon turned around and went in search of Lonmouth.

They returned to the keep only at the time of the early winter twilight. Connington was angry that he had to literally drag the young squire away from the pretty girl by his hair. Lonmouth trailed behind Jon, pluffing in displeasure, looking both ashamed and angry at the same time.

Together with Richard they went up to Rhaegar's room. Jon found the Prince in almost the same position he had left him a few hours ago.

“I found it all, as you asked, Your Highness!” Richard proclaimed happily. He slid under the arm of the gloomy Connington and ran to the Prince.

“Good,” Rhaegar perked up, “Jon, please draw your sword.”

Not quite getting what was required of him, Connington unsheathed his sword and stood there holding to it, looking at the Prince in complete confusion. Rhaegar stood up, wrapped his wonderful silver hair around his fist and, going up to Jon, said sternly:

“Cut it!”

Jon was taken aback. He wanted to argue, but the hard look of the indigo eyes stopped him. Connington sighed, in Rhaegar’s present situation it was perhaps truly necessary. He raised his weapon, aimed and slashed. One strike was enough. Rhaegar raised his hand with locks twisted around it to his eyes, looked at his hair, which once captivated so many ladies at court, and with a slight movement flung it aside.

“Please, prepare the dye, Richard,” he dropped and limped back to his seat.

When Jon looked at Rhaegar after some time, he would never have recognized the Prince. Short disobedient tufts of black hair stuck out in different directions, his face was drawn and seemed to have aged, and a red scar, which had not yet healed completely, divided it into two halves. Connington brought the Prince a small mirror, Rhaegar was staring at himself for a long time, and then silently returned the mirror to Jon. Connington tried to understand his mood, but could not read anything in the slightly narrowed indigo eyes.

“I’ve managed to find out something of interest,” Jon uttered, breaking an awkward silence. Having said this, he could hardly restrain a smile, he was so proud of the information he had obtained. “Let us sit down.”

Jon brought another chair to the table and settled opposite Rhaegar, while Richard simply sat on the floor. The youth looked too smug, perhaps Rhaegar should have been stricter with him. Dismissing Lonmouth’s presence altogether, Jon told Rhaegar everything he learned. Listening to him, the Prince turned more and more pale, Rhaegar's lips tensed into a thin line, and his fingers tapped restlessly on the wooden tabletop. When Jon finished, the Prince remained silent for a long time, withdrawing into his musings again.

“I need your help, Jon,” Rhaegar spoke up at last, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You can always count on me, my Prince,” Connington said fervently.

“I will need ink and parchment,” the Prince said shortly. “I will draw up a letter and you will deliver it to Highgarden. Tell lord Mace there is no time, and I expect an answer immediately. His reply should be sent by the raven on the same day he receives my massage. Instructions are inside this letter”

“Yes, my Prince,” Jon bowed his head obediently.

“Richard, you and I are leaving at dawn,” Rhaegar said to the squire. “Everything should be ready.”

“My prince!” Jon exclaimed. “But where to?”

"Storm's End," Rhaegar said dryly.

“But wouldn't you better go to your good father…” Connington started.

“No, Jon,” the Prince snapped. “All of this has been decided long ago. Everyone thinks that I have lost, yet I’m still fighting. My good father has no support, and there are three other Great Houses standing behind lord Stark. I hope you understand this. You must bring me the loyalty of the Tyrells.”

Jon was silent, for his objections no longer made any sense. He left Rhaegar alone with the parchment and ink. The resentment that the Prince had not bothered to fully include him into his affairs gnawed severely at Connington. All that Jon got were just the scraps of information he required to carry out the Prince's errands. Well, Connington gritted his teeth angrily, he will bring Rhaegar Tyrells’ loyalty, maybe then he would be able to take the lost Arthur Dayne’s place beside the Silver Prince.

By morning, the wind, which was howling for several days on, finally died down. The sky had just begun to brighten when Jon and Rhaegar walked out into the empty yard. Richard had already saddled the horses, and they were waiting for their masters, snorting softly with impatience.

“Hurry up, Jon.” When it was time to say goodbye, Rhaegar shook Connington’s hand. “I will wait for the word from you.”

“Take care of yourself, my Prince.” Jon held Rhaegar's fingers in his hand a little longer than he should have, however, the Prince didn't seem to notice. He climbed into the saddle with some difficulty and patted Jelmio affectionately on the neck. Rhaegar's black hair and dark clothing accentuated the sickly pallor of his concentrated face. For a long time, Jon could not take his eyes off this face, as if forged by the gods of Old Valyria and disfigured by silly men who did not even know what kind of man they dared to encroach on. If they were not already dead, Jon would have personally killed them all.

Rhaegar nodded to his friend for the last time with some restraint and, kicking his stallion, rode out the gate, while Jon continued to gaze on the road that opened before him and the two horsemen disappearing in the distance. Sighing, he closed the gate and bolted it. Having turned back to the keep, his eyes met the gaze of one of his servants. Jon did not even have time to come up with something to say, as the man rushed into a run.

Jon ran after him and caught up with him at the stairs leading to the keep kitchens.

“I didn't see anything,” the servant yelled heart-rendingly, raising his arms in the air.

“Fine, fine,” Connington nodded and reached into his pocket, his hands trembling, “I’ll give you ten golden dragons and you won’t remember anything at all.”

Instead of gold, however, steel glinted in the dim morning light. The dagger, decorated with a ruby with a scattering of diamonds, darted upwards instantly, and nothing but a barely audible groan escaped the servant's lips. His watery eyes were filled with surprise, and a trickle of blood ran through his clothes.

Jon's hands were still shaking. He wiped the dagger on the servant's clothes and returned it to its sheath. Throwing the man's body on his shoulders, he slipped out of the keep and, in order to hide the dead body, dragged it to one of the rocky ledges, where he used to enjoy the look at the sea. Despite the morning chill, sweat beaded down his face in large drops, and no matter how hard he tried, he still could not stop the shaking. Having climbed to the top of the ledge, Connington threw the servant’s body into the sea, and only when he saw the white horses, which sparkled far below, accept his sacrifice, did Jon allow himself a little rest and caught his breath.

_I should have done it_ , Connington thought as the sea wind ruffled his red hair, _I should have done it for him._


	34. Lyanna VI

Lyanna had never imagined that there could ever exist a place so quiet and so dark. Sometimes it seemed to her that she was completely deaf, and in order to refute this notion, Lyanna started to talk to herself quietly. The sound of her own voice seemed strange: too low and hollow, almost hoarse like a man’s, but she still had no opportunity to listen to any other. Sometimes, through the thick wooden door, the hammer of footsteps echoed down the narrow stone passage. Usually they went past her, disappearing like a ghost somewhere in the depths of these dungeons cursed by all the gods.

Now, however, the footsteps froze just outside her door, a heavy bolt creaked and the door opened with a desperate screech. As Lyanna expected, the jailer appeared in the doorway, illuminated by the light of a torch like by the one of a setting sun. The bright light hit her eyes painfully, and Lyanna put her hand to her forehead, protecting them, while she tried not to take her eyes off her visitor. He retrieved the pewter stacked in the corner from her previous meal and left Lyanna some fresh food instead.

“Why am I being kept here?” She asked for the umpteenth time, lifting herself slightly. “How long should I stay here? What am I being accused of?”

The jailer, ignoring her completely, placed a plate of some steaming broth on the poorly planed board that had served as Lyanna's table, and left without answering any of her questions. Again. No one had ever spoken to her here, they had not explained anything to her, they just continued to keep her here, and Lyanna was afraid that if all this lasted long enough, she would soon go mad. When she first got here, Lyanna hoped to make them pity her, force them to answer her, but now she asked her questions more out of perseverance than expectation to get some reply in return. She shouted, grabbed the jailers by the legs and arms, even begged them, but all was in vain. The girl might just as well have demanded an answer from the silent stone walls that now made up her whole world.

There were two jailers, in any case the others did not come to her. Lyanna called them Humpback and Nosy, for she did not notice any other distinguishing features in them, and they did not tell her their names. They did not speak to Lyanna at all or even look at her. Both were clad in dirty brown robes and flashed at her with black, deep-set eyes. Humpback, as today it was him who brought her food, took his torch and slammed the door, leaving Lyanna in the dark all over again.

Her eyes got used to the lack of light rather quickly and began to distinguish the outlines of objects around her: a straw mattress, which served as her bed, and a dirty chamber pot, which stood in the very corner and spread out a sickening smell. However, Lyanna had not paid attention to the stench surrounding her for a long time, she grabbed the abandoned plate and flung herself on the mush that smelled of boiled vegetables. Through the darkness, she even saw a piece of meat floating in the middle of a strange brew. Lyanna thought it foolish to go on a hunger strike out of protest. Nobody listened to her words here, and her refusal to eat will certainly not be taken into account, she would definitely be allowed to starve herself to death. However, Lyanna was not going to give them such pleasure, she still needed strength. Someone had to know that she was in trouble, someone had to come to her aid. Rhaegar would definitely miss her when he returned, and Brandon would not accept her disappearance. But what did they do to Brandon, and where was Rhaegar now?

The food here was quite tolerable, in any case, the smell from her plate was almost bearable, and she did not feel the impulse for her stomach to turn inside out from its taste. After having made a full meal and put the empty dish aside, Lyanna sat down on a thorny mattress, and the straws sticking out of it dug into her back and legs painfully, but Lyanna had already managed to adapt to this bed of hers and knew how to arrange herself so that the straw gave her the least inconvenience. She circled her arms around her legs and put her chin on her knees, plunging into her gloomy thoughts, for now she had nothing left but her own musings.

As soon as Lyanna remembered the day she was first brought here, her heart began to sink in fear again, and cold sweat appeared on her palms. She had to convince herself again and again that right now nothing terrible would happen, in any case, she was well fed, healthy, and the jailers were not even trying to touch her. At that time, she was not sure of anything. That morning, which now seemed so far away, Lyanna was about to set off for an early ride through King's Landing, wanting to see the capital before the city was filled with the hubbub of many passers-by and the noise of stalls and fairs.

Albyn was there with her and some of her house guards. Lyanna objected to such an escort, but Albyn insisted this time. He did not approve of such forays, but he could not do anything about Lyanna's wilfulness, so he only had to protect her from the consequences of her recklessness. Poor Albyn, is he alive, or had his wound proved to be fatal?

“I don’t understand,” he offered then, having met her at the Maidenvault, “why do you want so much to go right now.”

“I’m tired of sitting within four walls,” Lyanna explained, endless gossip had truly exhausted her, discouraging any desire to appear at court, “but I’m tired of people no less. I just want to jump on Dayflower, and gallop away into the Wolfswood...” she sighed softly.

Albyn sighed next to her, just as sad. Smiling, Lyanna took his arm, and they walked towards the city gates. However, before the northerners had time to take even a few steps, a guard in red and black robes appeared in front of them, blocking their path. Several more people loomed behind him.

“Lady Lyanna,” the guard said coldly, “you must come with me.”

“At so early a time?” Lyanna was careful. “But, pray, where to?”

“The prince is waiting for you,” the guard answered, still aloof.

“The Prince?” Lyanna was even more surprised and looked anxiously at Albyn. Had Rhaegar returned? And was this man truly the Dragon Prince's messenger? Rhaegar had always sent her notes through ser Oswell or ser Arthur, but the Sword of the Morning had left with the Prince, and Oswell Whent did not say anything to her, even though they saw each other almost every day. Lyanna was almost certain that Rhaegar would never have entrusted the secret so much guarded by them both to a simple soldier of his house guard.

“Prince Rhaegar,” the guard explained, deciding that she did not understand who he was referring to.

“As far as I know,” Lyanna raised her head and looked with slight contemptuousness at the soldier, “His Highness has left for Summerhall.”

“The prince arrived back last night,” the soldier's tone seemed strangely insistent, and it frightened her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Albyn grab the hilt of his sword.

“Fine then,” Lyanna faked an exasperated sigh, “even if the prince has returned, how does it concern me? Doesn't he want to have some rest after a long journey? Why did he so suddenly need his mother's lady-in-waiting?”

All these questions seemed to take the soldier by surprise. He seemed to expect her to follow him wherever he wanted to, as soon as he told her Prince Rhaegar’s name. Now, it seemed, he doubted whether he was mistaken, and whether the Dragon Prince’s affair with the wild northern girl, that was considered almost a fait accompli at court, turned out to be just false rumours.”

“Do tell His Highness that if he is so desperate to see me, then he should go and look for me himself,” Lyanna said loudly and tried to take a step forward, but the guard did not budge, and his companions stood tighter behind him.

Lyanna wanted to appear indignant, act out a scene, and thereby get rid of them, but she did not even have time to say anything, as the hand belonging to the soldier standing in front of her grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. Lyanna screamed, but his free hand covered her mouth.

“I said, you come with me,” the soldier told her, “you better not resist, so that no one is hurt.”

Despite his warning, Lyanna continued to kick. If she had any doubts about the Prince's involvement in all this, now they have finally disappeared. Rhaegar would never have allowed for her to be treated that way. At the same time as the nameless soldier twisted her arm, Albyn grabbed his sword and, together with other northerners who followed his example, rushed at those red-and-blacks who remained behind. The sound of steel crushing steel rang in her ears, and Lyanna wished she had any weapon by her.

The northerners tried to resist the Targaryen guards, but there were noticeably more king’s men, so the hope for success was gone as quickly as the trail of breath on the glass. Lyanna ceased to consider what was happening as just a misunderstanding or even a bad dream, when one of her men was impaled by a sword and fell dead. She had never seen people die, so simply and quickly, almost silently, as soon as sharp steel pierced soft human flesh. The poor fellow, for sure, did not even have time to feel that life was leaving his body, the last words that flew from his lips a few moments before death came for him were simple swearing. Startled, Lyanna froze for a while, ceasing to twitch, but only in order to resume the struggle with renewed vigour.

She pushed and kicked the guard at his arms and legs, but no matter how dexterous she was, the young girl could not cope with a strong man. Desperate, she contrived and sank her teeth into the soldier's hand, which was clamping her mouth. He wailed loudly and released a downpour of dirty swearing, which even Lyanna, having grown up in the company of four men, who sometimes allowed themselves a sharp word, had never heard. Taking advantage of his confusion, Lyanna screamed with all her might, hoping to get someone's attention. The castle was still asleep at such an early time, and Lyanna had to scream very loud to wake up at least someone who could come to her aid.

The soldier, who continued to hold her, puffed with displeasure. Shaking his bitten hand, he tried again to clamp Lyanna's mouth, but she did not give up.

“Shut up,” he hissed, “shut up now!”

However, Lyanna did not even think to listen to him, turning her head back, she saw Albyn slashed with a sword, and then another dead northerner fell to the ground near him. Tears of horror ran down Lyanna’s cheeks, her voice broke and became more like a howl of a wounded wolf. However, she soon calmed down too, for the soldier, apparently tired of fiddling with her, hit her with all his might on the head, and Lyanna lost consciousness.

When she came back to her senses, for the very first moment she thought that she had become blind, for even when she opened her eyes, there was only darkness all around. However, her eyes soon got used to it, the smells of wet stone and rotten straw hit her nose, and Lyanna realized that she was in prison. She did not know why she ended up here, or where the place of her imprisonment was. Much time had passed since that day, although Lyanna could not count exactly how much. The girl counted the hours of her sleep as night, and the hours of wakefulness as day, however, no matter how hard she tried to count them, nothing came of it, and she got confused.

Her body became gradually covered with a thick layer of dirt and itched constantly. As soon as Lyanna scratched herself, grime and tiny particles of dead skin stuck under her nails. The girl even tried to scrape off her entire body this way, but this attempt was unsuccessful and did not bring proper relief. Her hair was tangled and hung in long greasy locks, her dress, which had once been light grey, had become almost black, at least it seemed so in the dark. The wool absorbed the smells of sweat and dampness, and now it gave off a disgusting stench itself. However, Lyanna got used to this smell pretty quickly and soon stopped noticing it. It was surprising that it turned out to be not so hard to get used to her new circumstances, and Lyanna was scared that sooner or later she would get used to this whole life in confinement, having forgotten how life was outside her cell. She would forget about the soft pink colour of dawn and sunset of the colour of a burning flame, she would forget how pleasant it was to push a horse into a gallop and ride forward without looking back, she would forget about the gentle wind, about the biting frost, about the snow that sparkles in the sun in her dear Winterfell, about sweet scent of winter roses and taste of Prince Rhaegar's lips on hers.

“Rhaegar,” Lyanna called softly in the outburst of despair that seized her, and for a moment she believed that she heard him answer her. She heard her name uttered in his gentle voice, somehow tired and exhausted. The girl started abruptly and jumped to her feet, throwing off the sheath of reverie, which overtook her almost constantly when she was awake. Only then did she suddenly realize with all bitterness that her imagination had played a cruel trick on her. Rhaegar was not here, and she was left all alone.

Lyanna wrapped her arms around her shoulders and sank back into her place, feeling the indescribable weight of her position pressing against her fragile body.

“I'm going mad,” she muttered. Lyanna had for a long time not felt the difference between when she just thought the words and when she spoke them out loud. The voice in her head was no different from the voice that filled the void of the dungeon. “I beg you, old gods, do not let this happen to me!”

From that moment on, Lyanna was haunted by the fear of losing her mind, however, she had no idea how to prevent this, she was not even completely sure that her state of mind had not been shaken by loneliness and impenetrable darkness. Once she asked her jailers for a candle and a book, but they did not respond to this request, like to many others. She could only hope that soon something would finally happen, interrupting her imprisonment, which now seemed endless.

Better to be executed than to rot in this dungeon.

“No,” Lyanna said firmly to herself, as soon as this thought knocked on her mind like an uninvited guest, “I do not wish death. I will fight, and if I am destined to die, it will happen as I want it. I will deprive them of that one pleasure at least.”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared into the darkness, as if staring into Aerys' eyes dark like deep pools. However, instead of a king’s gaze full of madness, she was looked at by two small round eyes that did not look like humans. Lyanna closed her eyes in fear, scared that she began to dream of something unknown again. Although, when she opened her eyes again, she was still being studied with interest. Lyanna stirred, intending to crawl closer, but her unannounced neighbour moved forward himself, turning out to be nothing more than a fat rat.

Lyanna jumped back and pressed her back against the cold, damp wall. From very childhood, she was afraid of rats to tremble in her knees. When Lyanna was just about three years old, old Nan had frightened her by saying that if she misbehaved, all the rats of Winterfell would come into her room and gnaw the naughty girl to the bone. The child was so impressed that she acted like a perfect lady for a whole week. Then Lyanna, however, returned to her antics, but her fear of rats stayed with her for a long time. Though it had to be carefully hidden, because if Brandon or Benjen had found out about it, Lyanna would certainly have found dozens of nasty rodents in her bed, even if she remained the most obedient girl in the kingdom.

Only when she found herself in a dungeon, Lyanna thought that rats would certainly come for her soon, for she had heard that such places were just teeming with them, but the rodents did not visit her, and the poor prisoner decided that she was being kept somewhere too deep underground, and the rats simply did not go so far. However, now one rat spy still came to haunt her.

“Do you also like distant travels like me?” Lyanna whispered, making sure that the animal was not going to gnaw her to the bones. As if hearing her words, the rat ran closer and sniffed the hem of her dress, which was spread on the floor. In the darkness, the girl thought that the animal grimaced with displeasure. “You prefer nicer smells, don't you?” Lyanna grinned, continuing to talk to the rat as if it could somehow answer her. “Maybe you dwell in the kitchens, and came here by chance? Poor fellow, to live among jams and buns, and then end up in this foul-smelling hole. Anyway, you can get out of here if you wish to,” Lyanna sighed.

The rat seemed to be listening to Lyanna attentively, and for a moment she even fancied that the animal would now speak in a completely human voice, or at least nod in agreement, but the rat only sat for a little while longer near the edge of her hem, and then, as if tired of her stupid questions, it fled somewhere into the darkness, wagging his long bald tail.

“Even the rats leave me,” Lyanna complained.

Nevertheless, from that day on, the rat began to visit Lyanna quite frequently. Once she offered him a crust of stale, tasteless bread, which she was given for lunch, but the rat refused such a generous treat, and Lyanna was again convinced that the animal ate in the keep kitchens. The rat usually sat down next to her, and she chatted with it like with a human, and composed funny stories about where it had gone and what it had done.

“Tell me,” Lyanna asked once, “could you bite the king?”

In response, the animal moved its whiskers, as if seriously considering her request.

“I know,” she sighed, “this is treason and they will have you executed for it, but you can easily escape. The guards don't have such small shackles, and no one can catch you.”

The rat ran its nose over the straw and stared at Lyanna with an expression that looked like surprise.

“For me,” the prisoner begged.

The animal snorted.

“You don't want to,” Lyanna shook her head, “nobody wants. Everyone is afraid, and you are as afraid as they are. Don't think that I am angry with you. I would probably be scared myself too. I was right when I told dear Nan that her stories are all lies. You see for yourself, you are not gnawing my bones, and the valiant knight, who must free us from the madman, is still not here.”

As she finished her speech, Lyanna felt tears run slowly down her cheeks. Surprisingly, she did not cry even when she found herself locked up here, but now for some reason she felt very sad. With a sob, she wiped her eyes with her hands, smearing the mud mixed with tears on her cheeks. The place where the rat had sat was now empty.

Lyanna began to catch herself on missing the rat and often listening to the silence, hoping to hear the clatter of little paws. However, today the silence that reigned around her cell was especially depressing, it seemed to flood her ears with molten iron, and was about to threaten to break her head. As if defying the silence, footsteps rattled in the passage. Lyanna expected them to go past her as usual, but the steps suddenly froze and a heavy bolt rattled opening the door.

Lyanna had just finished her dinner, so the unexpected intrusion scared her. Here it is. Now something must finally happen. What will they do to her? Will she be released or taken to execution? Lyanna stood up and raised her head proudly, preparing to meet the guards, but instead she saw the kingsguards Ser Oswell and Ser Jaime right in front of her. Lyanna put her hand over her mouth in amazement so as not to cry out. She was delighted, but then immediately alerted. Both guards served the crown, which meant they could carry out Aerys' orders. Perhaps the Mad King just wanted to laugh at them like that.

"Lady Lyanna," Ser Oswell spoke up, his voice both excited and gentle at the same time, "how are you feeling?"

She had never seen Whent so focused and serious. The mischief disappeared from his voice and eyes, leaving them empty and lifeless.

“Are you here by the order of the king?” Lyanna blurted out, wanting an immediate rebuttal to her suspicions.

“No,” Ser Jaime smiled, “of course not. You can trust us.”

Young Lannister's obscenely handsome face looked older than the one Lyanna remembered. Jaime seemed tired and brooding, pale, dark circles had formed under his eyes. The smile on his lips faded, having barely started to light up.

She wanted to embrace each of them, she even took a hasty step forward, but froze immediately, remembering how fully covered in grime she was. Probably, she presented an unpleasant sight for both of them. Without a proper reason, Lyanna felt ashamed suddenly, and swiftly turned away.

“How are you?” Ser Oswell repeated his question.

“Passable,” Lyanna muttered, surprised that for the first time in an infinitely long period she was speaking to a living person other than herself, “as fine as it is possible in my position. But how glad I am to see you both! How did you find me?”

“Not without the assistance from lord Varys,” Ser Oswell grimaced, “without him we would have never known where you are kept.”

There followed another round of awkward silence, as the news of Varys left Lyanna puzzled. She never particularly liked the master of whisperers, she was even a little afraid of him, and she certainly was not sure whether to trust him. The guards watched her expectantly, ser Oswell not knowing where to put his hands, and ser Jaime shifting nervously from foot to foot. Lyanna felt that a waterfall of questions that had been accumulating in her mind all this time was about to burst out, and she did not even know where to start.

“I would offer you to sit down, like a proper lady would,” Lyanna tried to smile. “However, I look like a scum from the Flea Bottom, and there’s nowhere to sit.”

“I’m glad you’re making japes, my lady, it brings some relief far better than any assurances of yours would have,” ser Oswell returned her smile. His face softened a little, and the girl felt freer to talk to them.

“I remember, my dear ser,” Lyanna allowed herself to come closer, “you advised me yourself not to trust ser Jaime, and now you resort to his help. How long have I spent here, since such dramatic changes have occurred during my absence?”

“My advice was perfectly sincere, lady Lyanna,” Ser Oswell chuckled, “but ser Jaime has proved himself very worthy of our trust. He was the first to worry about your disappearance and came to me on his own will.”

“I told you I want to be a proper knight,” Jaime winked at her.

“You must tell me everything now,” Lyanna pleaded, “I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

"Certainly," Ser Oswell nodded, "but first I must ask your forgiveness, lady Lyanna. Prince Rhaegar asked me to take good care of you, and I have awfully failed.”

“You shouldn't ask for forgiveness, dear ser,” Lyanna exclaimed. Having completely forgot about any decency, she grabbed the knight's hand and squeezed it, “no one can resist the Mad King. However, you did not give up, you found me, you made your way down here, and at least for that I will be grateful to you both till the day I die. But where is the prince himself?”

“No one knows,” ser Oswell shook his head resignedly, “he seems to have disappeared near the ruins of Summerhall along with ser Arthur and their squires. As soon as you were captured, there was a rumour that the prince had abducted you and raped you. The gossip is running around the whole city now. I'm afraid common folk are disappointed in their hero.”

“But this is impossible!” Lyanna was indignant. “Rhae... The prince would never...”

“The prince has always been considered a bit strange,” Jaime interrupted her, “and it’s not hard for many to believe that his mind was damaged like his father’s, and besides, his affection for you is known to all at court.”

“And what does the king say?” Lyanna asked with a sigh.

“I believe that Aerys himself is behind this, or rather not he, but his advisers, who benefit from denigrating Rhaegar and pushing him away from the throne. Few know the truth.” Ser Oswell took a deep breath and then continued. “After the Targaryen home guards attacked you, one of your men, Snow, was able to reach lord Brandon and tell him everything. Princess Elia, who was with your brother, also heard Snow's story. Lord Brandon went to the king with a bare sword and blamed him for your disappearance. He was also thrown into prison for this.”

“No!” Lyanna screamed and grabbed ser Oswell's shoulder with all her might to keep from falling. “And what about Albyn? What happened to the rest of our men?”

“All your men are killed,” Jaime looked at her with regret, “I don’t know what happened to your female servants, but it would be better for them if they suffered the same fate.”

Lyanna covered her face with her hands, trying to hold back the tears that were about to strangle her.

“I'm sorry,” Whent muttered, supporting her, “however, princess Elia managed to escape unnoticed. The poor thing is very frightened, but carries on with dignity. I learned all this from her and from lady Ashara.”

“And I guessed myself,” said Jaime, even now not missing the opportunity to boast, “tell me, why should the prince abduct you, if you already meeting him quite voluntarily? I’ve explained my thoughts to ser Oswell, we tried to find you ourselves, but then Varys came to us and shared his knowledge.”

“Why should he help me?” Lyanna was surprised.

“No one knows what the Spider has in mind,” Jaime shrugged.

“Perhaps you have common enemies,” added Ser Oswell, “or perhaps he really wants to help you, although the first option seems more likely to me.”

Lyanna smiled bitterly, shaking her head.

“How did you get here?” She asked curiously.

“Varys gave us a sleeping drought and we managed to put the guards to sleep,” Jaime explained.

“We do not yet know how you can get out of here,” ser Oswell spoke up. “Varys was unwilling to help us with this, but he will not interfere either. We will definitely come up with something ourselves.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna whispered, “I only beg you on the names of all the gods, don't you dare put yourself in danger for me, otherwise I won't forgive myself for this.”

The guards looked at each other, but said nothing. Lyanna was about to repeat her request when she felt something slip under her feet.

“Rattie!” She exclaimed joyfully, welcoming the animal, which was now studying her guests with surprise.

Ser Oswell and ser Jaime followed her gaze and looked at Lyanna in bewilderment.

“This is Rattie,” she explained, “he often visits me, brightening up my loneliness.”

Oswell cleared his throat, holding back his laughter, and Jaime chuckled openly. Lyanna was a little embarrassed, but did not show it, she said, pointing her index finger at the guards:

“Don't laugh at my friend!”

“Do you know how this animal gets here?” Oswell asked suddenly, becoming quite serious.

“No,” Lyanna shook her head, “but judging by the fact that he refuses to help himself to my dinner, I decided that he lives somewhere near the keep’s kitchens.”

“Hmm,” Oswell mused. Probing his doublet, he pulled out a thin thread and tied it around the rat's neck. “Perhaps your rat knows the castle passages better than Varys.”

Lyanna looked at him questioningly, but Oswell only waved her off, however his eyes flashed with the returned cunningness. It was time for the guards to leave, and Lyanna hugged them goodbye. None of them even winced, and Jaime reassured her once again that they would not leave her alone. Lyanna did not want to let them go, but the sleeping guards could wake up at any moment.

When, after a long parting, the kingsguards left nevertheless, she lay down on her mattress and closed her eyes, for the first time in her entire imprisonment Lyanna felt hope: they had not forgotten her. However, with hope came bitterness. Her heart ached for her brother, who, perhaps, was somewhere near her, perhaps somewhere a little further down the narrow passage of death. Lyanna could at least console herself with the fact that Bran was still alive, but she did not know anything about Rhaegar, as if he had dissolved in his Summerhall, becoming another ghost of this sad place. If only he was alive, if only he returned to her, and with the rest they can cope together.

Lyanna did not know how much time had passed, but one day a rat came running to her with a new thread, two white buttons were attached to it. The girl's heart beat faster. They were looking for a way to save her, may the gods help them, the old and the new!


End file.
